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LAST OF THE BARONS 


BY 

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DEDICATORY EPISTLE. 


I DEDICATE to you, my indulgent Critic and long- 
tried Friend, the work which owes its origin to your 
suggestion. Long since, you urged me to attempt 
a fiction which might borrow its characLers from our 
own Kecords, and serve to illustrate some of those 
truths which History is too often compelled to leave 
to the Tale-teller, the Dramatist, and the Poet. 
Unquestionably, Fiction, when aspiring to something 
higher than mere romance, does not pervert, but 
elucidate Facts. He who employs it worthily must, 
like a biographer, study the time and the characters 
he selects, with a minute and earnest diligence which 
the general historian, whose range extends over cen- 
turies, can scarcely be expected to bestow upon the 
things and the men of a single epoch; his descriptions 
should fill up with color and detail the cold outlines 
of the rapid chronicler ; and, in spite of all that has 
been argued by pseudo-critics, the very fancy which 
urged and animated his theme should necessarily 
tend to increase the reader s practical and familiar 
acquaintance with the habits, the motives, and the 
modes of thought, which constitute the true idiosyn- 
crasy of an age. More than all, to Fiction is per- 
1 * (v) 


VI 


DEDICATORY EPISTLE. 


mitted that liberal use of Analogical Hypothesis 
which is denied to History, and which, if sobered by 
research, and enlightened by that knowledge of man- 
kind (without which Fiction can neither harm nor 
profit, for it becomes unreadable), tends to clear up 
much that were otherwise obscure, and to solve the 
disputes and difficulties of contradictory evidence by 
the philosophy of the human heart. 

My own impression of the greatness of the labor 
to which you invited me, made me the more diffident 
of success, inasmuch as the field of English historical 
fiction had been so amply cultivated not only by the 
most brilliant of our many glorious Novelists, but by 
later writers of high and merited reputation. But 
however the annals of our History have been ex- 
hausted by the industry of romance, the subject you 
finally pressed on my choice is unquestionably one 
which, whether in the delineation of character, the 
expression of passion, or the suggestion of historical 
truths, can hardly fail to direct the Novelist to paths 
wholly untrodden by his predecessors in the Land of 
Fiction. 

Encouraged by you, I commenced my task — en- 
couraged by you, I venture, on concluding it, to 
believe that, despite the partial adoption of that es- 
tablished compromise between the modern and the 
elder diction, which ^ir Walter Scott so artistically 
improved from the more rugged phraseology em- 
ployed bv Strutt, and which later writes have per- 
haps somewhat over-hackneyed, I may yet have 
aYQid<5d all material trespass upon ground v/bich 


DEDICATORY EPISTLE. 


vii 


others have already redeemed from the waste. — 
Whatever the produce of the soil I have selected, I 
claim, at least, to have cleared it with my own labor> 
and ploughed it with my own heifer. 

The reign of Edward IV. is in itself suggestive of 
new considerations and unexhausted interest to those 
who accurately regard it. Then commenced the 
policy consummated by Henry VII. ; then were 
broken up the great elements of the old feudal order • 
a new Nobility was called into power, to aid the 
growing Middle Class in its struggles with the 
ancient: and in the fate of the hero of the age, 
Bichard Nevile, Earl of Warwick, popularly called 
the King-maker, ^‘the greatest as well as the last 
of those mighty Barons who formerly overawed the 
Crown,” * was involved the very principle of our 
existing civilization. It adds to the wide scope of 
Fiction, which ever loves to explore the twilight, 
that, as Hume has truly observed — ‘No part of 
English history since the Conquest is so obscure, so 
uncertain, so little authentic or consistent, as that 
of the Wars between the two Boses.” f It adds also 
to the importance of that conjectural research in 
which Fiction may be made so interesting and so 
useful, that — this profound darkness falls upon us 
just on the eve of the restoration of letters ; J while 


* Hume adds, “and rendered the people incapable of civil 
government;” a sentence, which, perhaps, judges too hastily the 
whole question at issue in our earlier history, between the jealousy 
of the Barons and the authority of the King. 

f Hume. I Ibid 


DEDICATORY EPISTLE. 


viii 

amidst the gloom, we perceive the movement of those 
great and heroic passions in which Fiction find^ 
delineations everlastingly new, and are brought in 
contact with characters sufficiently familiar for inte- 
rest, sufficiently remote for adaptation to romance, 
and, above all, so frequently obscured by contradic- 
tory evidence, that we lend ourselves willingly to 
any one who seeks to help our judgment of the indi- 
vidual by tests taken from the general knowledge of 
mankind. 

Bound the great image of the Last of the Barons 
group Edward the Fourth, at once frank and false ; 
the brilliant but ominous boyhood of Eichard the 
Third ; the accomplished Hastings, ‘‘ a good knight 
and gentle, but somewhat dissolute of living ; * the 
vehement and fiery Margaret of Anjou, the meek 
image of her holy Henry,” and the pale shadow of 
their son : there, may we see, also, the gorgeous 
Prelate, refining in policy and wile, as the enthusiasm 
and energy which had formerly upheld the Ancient 
Church pass into the stern and persecuted votaries 
of the Hew : We behold, in that social transition, the 
sober Trader — outgrowing the prejudices of the rude 
retainer or rustic franklin, from whom he is sprung 
— recognizing sagaciously, and supporting sturdily, 
the sectarian interests of his order, and preparing 
the way for the mighty Middle Class in which our 
modern Civilization, with its faults and its merits, 
has established its stronghold; while, in contrast to 
the measured and thoughtful notions of liberty which 


^ Chronicle of Edward V. in Stowe. 


DEDICATORY EPISTLE. 1 % 

prudent Commerce entertains, we are reminded of 
the political fanaticism of the secret Lollard — of the 
jacquerie of the turbulent mob-leader ; and perceive, • 
amidst the various tyrannies of the time, and often 
partially allied with the warlike seignorie * — ever 
jealous against all kingly despotism — the restless 
and ignorant movement of a democratic principle, 
ultimately suppressed, though not destroyed, under 
the Tudors, by the strong union of a Middle Class, 
anxious for security and order, with an Executive 
Authority determined upon absolute sway. 

Nor should we obtain a complete and compre- 
hensive view of that most interesting Period of 
Transition, unless we saw something of the influence 
which the sombre and sinister wisdom of Italian 
policy began to exercise over the councils of the 
great — a policy of reflned stratagem — of compli- 
cated intrigue — of systematic falsehood — of ruthless, 
but secret violence : a policy which actuated the fell 
state-craft of Louis XI., which darkened, whenever 
he paused to think and to scheme, the gaudy and 
jovial character of Edward IV. ; which appeared in 
its fullest combination of profound guile and resolute 
will in Eichard III., and — softened down into more 
plausible and specious purpose by the unimpassioned 
sagacity of Henry VII. — finally attained the object 

* For it is noticeable that in nearly all the popular risings — 
that of Cade, of Robin of Redesdale, and afterwards of that which 
Perkin Warbeck made subservient to his extraordinary enterprise, 
the proclamations of the rebels always announced, among their 
popular grievances, the depression of the ancient nobles and the 
elevation of new men. 


X 


DEDICATORY EPISTLE. 


which justified all its villanies to the princes of its 
native land — namely, the tranquillity of a settled 
state, and the establishment of a civilized but impe- 
rious despotism. 

Again, in that twilight time, upon which was 
dawning the great Invention that gave to Letters 
and to Science the precision and durability of the 
printed page; it is interesting to conjecture what 
would have been the fate of any scientific achieve- 
ment for which the world was less prepared. The 
reception of printing into England, chanced just at 
the happy period when Scholarship and Literature 
were favored by the great. The princes of York, 
with the exception of Edward IV. himself, who had, 
however, the grace to lament his own want of learn- 
ing, and the taste to appreciate it in others, were 
highly educated. The Lords Eivers and Hastings * 
were accomplished in all the witte and lere ” of 
their age. Princes and peers vied with each other 
in their patronage of Caxton, and Eichard III., 
during his brief reign, spared no pains to circulate 
to the utmost the invention destined to transmit his 
own memory to the hatred and the horror of all 
succeeding time. But when we look around us, we 
see^ in contrast to the gracious and fostering recep- 
tion of the mere mechanism by which science is made 
manifest, the utmost intolerance to science itself. 
The mathematics in especial are deemed the very 


* The erudite Lord Worcester had been one of Caxton’s warmest 
patrons, but that nobleman was no more, at the time in which 
Printing is said to have been actually introduced into England. 


DEDICATORY EPISTLE. 


xi 


cabala of tbe black art — accusations of witchcraft 
were never more abundant, and yet, strange to say, 
those who openly professed to practise the unhallowed 
science,* and contrived to make their deceptions 
profitable to some unworthy political purpose, appear 
to have enjoyed safety, and sometimes even honor, 
while those who, occupied with some practical, useful, 
and noble pursuits, uncomprehended by prince or 
people, denied their sorcery, were despatched with- 
out mercy. The Mathematician and Astronomer, 
Bolinbroke (the greatest clerk of his age), is hanged 
and quartered as a wizard, while not only impunity 
but reverence seems to have awaited a certain Briar 
Bungey, for having raised mists and vapors, which 
greatly befriended Edward IV. at the battle of 
Barnet. 

Our knowledge of the intellectual spirit of the 
age, therefore, only becomes perfect when we con- 
trast the success of the Impostor with the fate of the 
true Genius. And as the prejudices of the populace 
ran high against all mechanical contrivances for 
altering the settled conditions of labor, f so, pro- 


* Nigromancy or Sorcery even took its place amongst the regular 
callings. Thus, “Thomas Vandyke, late of Cambridge,” is styled 
(Rolls Pari. 6, p. 273) Nigromancer, as his profession. — Sharon 
Turner, “ History of England,” vol. iv. p. 6. Bucke, “History of 
Richard III.” 

f Even in the article of bonnets and hats, it appears that certain 
wicked Fulling Mills were deemed worthy of a special anathema 
in the reign of Edward IV. These engines are accused of having 
sought, “by subtle imagination,” the destruction of the original 
makers of hats and bonnets, “ Vjy man’s strength — that is, with 


xii 


DEDICATORY EPISTLE. 


bably, in tlie very instinct and destiny of Genius, 
which ever drive it to a war with popular prejudice, 
it would be towards such contrivances that a man 
of great ingenuity and intellect, if studying the 
physical sciences, would direct his ambition. 

Whether the author, in the invention he has 
assigned to his philosopher (Adam Warner), has too 
boldly assumed the possibility of a conception so 
much in advance of the time, they who have ex- 
amined such of the works of Eoger Bacon as are 
yet given to the world, can best decide; but the 
assumption in itself belongs strictly to the most 
acknowledged prerogatives of Fiction ; and the true 
and important question will obviously be, not whether 
Adam Warner could have constructed his model, but 
whether, having so constructed it, the fate that befell 
him was probable and natural. 

Such characters as I have here alluded to, seemed, 
then, to me, in meditating the treatment of the high 
and brilliant subject which your eloquence animated 
me to attempt, the proper Eepresentatives of the 
multiform Truths which the time of Warwick, the 
King-maker, affords to our interests and suggests 
for our instruction; and I can only wish that the 
powers of the author were worthier of the theme. 

It is necessary that I now state briefly the founda- 
tion of the Historical portions of this narrative. The 
charming and popular History of Hume, which, 


hands and feet.” And an act of parliament was passed (22nd of 
Edward IV.) to put down the fabrication of the said hats and 
bonnets by Mechanical contrivance. 


DEDICATORY EPISTLE. xiH 

however, in its treatment of the reign of Edward 
IV. is more than ordinarily incorrect, has probabl;^ 
left upon the minds of many of my readers, who may 
not have directed their attention to more recent and 
accurate researches into that obscure period, an 
erroneous impression of the causes which led to the 
breach between Edward IV. and his great kinsman 
and subject, the Earl of Warwick. The general 
notion is probably still strong, that it was the mar- 
riage of the young king to Elizabeth Gray, during 
Warwick’s negotiations in France for the alliance of 
Bona of Savoy (sister-in-law to Louis XI.), which 
exasperated the fiery earl, and induced his union 
with the House of Lancaster. All our more recent 
historians have justly rejected this groundless fable, 
which even Hume (his extreme penetration supplying 
the defects of his superficial research) admits with 
reserve.* A short summary of the reasons for this 
rejection is given by Dr. Lingard, and annexed 
below, t And, indeed, it is a matter of wonder that 

* “There may even some doubt arise with regard to the pro- 
posal of marriage made to Bona of Savoy,” &c. — Hume, note to 
p. 222, vol. iii., edit. 1825. 

f “ Many writers tell us that the enmity of Warwick arose from 
his disappointment, caused by Edward’s clandestine marriage with 
Elizabeth. If we may believe them, the earl was at the very time 
in France negotiating on the part of the king a marriage with Bona 
of Savoy, sister to the Queen of France; and having succeeded in 
his mission, brought back with him the Count of Dampmartin as 
ambassador from Louis. To me the whole s^ory appears a fiction. 
1. It is not to be found in the more ancient historians. 2. Warwick 
was not at the time in France. On the 20th of April, ten days 
before the marriage, he was employed in negotiating a truce with 
the French envoys in London (Rym. xi. 521), and on the 26th of 

L— 2 


XIV 


DEDICATORY EPISTLE. 


80 mary of our chroniclers could have gravely ad- 
mitted a legend contradicted by all the subsequent 
conduct of Warwick himself. For we find the earl 
specially doing honor to the publication of Edward’s 
marriage, standing godfather to his first-born (the 
Princess Elizabeth), employed as ambassador, or act- 
ing as minister, and fighting /or Edward, and against 
the Lancastrians during the five years that elapsed 
between the coronation of Elizabeth and Warwick’s 
rebellion. 

The real causes of this memorable quarrel, in 
which Warwick acquired his title of King-maker, 
appear to have been these. 

It is probable enough, as Sharon Turner suggests,* 
that Warwick was disappointed that, since Edward 
chose a subject for his wife, he neglected the more 
suitable marriage he might have formed with the 
earl’s eldest daughter : and it is impossible but that 
the earl should have been greatly chafed, in common 
with all his order, by the promotion of the queen’s 
relations, t new men, and apostate Lancastrians. 

May, about three weeks after it, was appointed to treat of another 
truce with the King of Scots (Rym. xi. 424). 3. Nor could he 

bring Dampmartin with him to England. For that nofcleman was 
committed a prisoner to the Bastile in September, 1463, and 
remained there till May, 1465. (Monstrel. iii, 97, 109.) Three 
contemporary and well-informed writers, the two continuators of 
the History of Croyland, and Wyrcester, attribute his discontent to 
the marriages and honors granted to the Wydeviles, and the mar- 
riage of the Princess 'Margaret with the Duke of Burgundy.” 

Lingard, vol. iii. c. 24, p. 6, 19, 4to edition. 

* Sharon Turner, “History of England,” vol. Ui. p. 269. 

t W.Wyr. 606, 7. Croyl. 542. 


DEDICATORY EPISTLE. X7 

But it is clear that these causes for discontent never 
weakened his zeal for Edward till the year 1467, 
when we chance upon the true origin of the romance 
concerning Bona of Savoy, and the first open dis- 
sension between Edward and the earl. 

In that year Warwick went to France, to conclude 
an alliance with Louis XL, and to secure the hand 
of one of the French princes * for Margaret, sister to 
Edward IV. ; during this period, Edward received 
the bastard brother of Charles, Count of Charolois, 
afterwards Duke of Burgundy, and arranged a mar- 
riage between Margaret and the count. 

Warwick’s embassy was thus dishonored, and the 
dishonor was aggravated by personal enmity to the 
bridegroom Edward had preferred, f The earl re- 


Which of the princes this was, does not appear, and can 
scarcely be conjectured. The “ Pictorial History of England ” 
(Book V, 102), in a tone of easy decision, says, “it was one of the 
sons of Louis XI.” But Louis had no living sons at all at the time. 
The Dauphin was not born till three years afterwards. The most 
probable person was the Duke of Guienne, Louis’s brother. 

•}• The Croyland Historian, who, as far as his brief and meagre 
record extends, is the best authority for the time of Edward IV., 
very decidedly states the Burgundian alliance to be the original 
cause of Warwick’s displeasure, rather than the king’s marriage 
with Elizabeth ; — “Upon which (the marriage of Margaret with 
Charolois), Richard Nevile, Earl of Warwick, who had for so many 
years taken party with the French against the Burgundians, con- 
ceived great indignation ; and I hold this to be the truer cause of 
his resentment, than the king’s marriage with Elizabeth, for he had 
rather have procured a husband for the aforesaid Princess Margaret 
in the kingdom of France.” The Croyland Historian also speaks 
emphatically of the strong animosity existing between Charolois 
and Warwick. — Cont. Croyl. 551. 


Xvi DEDICATORY EPISTLE. 

tired in disgust to his castle. But Warwick’s nature, 
which Hume has happily described as one of “ un de- 
signing frankness and openness,” * does not seem to 
have long harbored this resentment. By the inter- 
cession of the Archbishop of York and others, a 
reconciliation was effected, and the next year, 1468, 
we find Warwick again in favor, and even so far 
forgetting his own former cause of complaint, as to 
accompany the procession in honor of Margaret’s 
nuptials with his private foe. f In the following 
year, however, arose the second dissension between 
the king and his minister — viz., in the king’s refusal 
to sanction the marriage of his brother Clarence with 
the earl’s daughter Isabel, a refusal which was 
attended with a resolute opposition that must greatly 
have galled the pride of the earl, since Edward even 
went so far asj to solicit the pope to refuse his 
sanction, on the ground of relationship. The pope, 
nevertheless, grants the dispensation, and the mar- 
riage takes place at Calais. A popular rebellion then 
breaks out in England. Some of Warwick’s kinsmen 
— those, however, belonging to the branch of the 
Nevile family that had always been Lancastrians, 
and at variance with the earl’s party — are found at 
its head. The king, who is in imminent danger, 
writes a supplicating letter to Warwick to come to 
his aid. § The earl again forgets former causes for 

* Hume, “Henry VI.,” vol. iii. p. 172, edit. 1825. 

•}• Lingard. J Carte. Wm. Wyre. 

^ “Fasten Letters,” cxcviii. vol. ii., Knight’s edition. See Lin* 
gard, c. 24, for the true date of Edward’s letters to Warwick, 
Clarence, and the Archbishop of York. 


DEDICATORY EPISTLE. 


XVll 


resentment, hastens from Calais, rescues the king, 
and quells the rebellion by the influence of his 
popular name. 

We next find Edward at Warwick’s castle of 
Middleham, where, according to some historians, he 
is forcibly detained, an assertion treated by others 
as a contemptible invention ; but, whatever the true 
construction of the story, we find that Warwick and 
the king are still on such friendly terms, that the 
earl marches in person against a rebellion on the 
borders — obtains a signal victory — and that the 
rebel leader (the earl’s own kinsman) is beheaded by 
Edward at York. We find that, immediately after 
, this supposed detention, Edward speaks of Warwick 
and his brothers as his best friends ” * — that he 
betroths his eldest daughter to Warwick’s nephew, 
the male heir of the family. And then suddenly, 
only three months afterwards (in Feb. 1470), and 
without any clear and apparent cause, we find War- 

*“Pastou Letters,” cciv. vol. ii., Knight’s edition. The date 
of this letter, which puzzled the worthy annotator, is clearly to be 
referred to Edward’s return from York, after his visit to Middleham 
in 1469. No mention is therein made by the gossiping contempo- 
rary of any rumor that Edward had suffered imprisonment. Ele 
enters the city in state, as having returned safe and victorious from 
a formidable rebellion. The letter goes on to say — “The king 
himself hath [that is, holds] good language of the Lords Clarence, 
of Warwick, &c., saying, ‘they be his best friends.’” Would he 
say this if just escaped from a prison ? Sir John Paston, the 
writer of the letter, adds, it is true, “But his household men have 
[hold] other language.” Very probably, for the household men 
were the court creatures always at variance with Warwick, and 
held, no doubt, the same language they had been in the habit of 
holding before. 

2 * 


B 


Xviii DEDICATORY EPISTLE. 

wick in open rebellion, animated by a deadly batied 
to the king, refusing, from first to last, all overtures 
of conciliation ; and so determined is his vengeance, 
that he bows a pride, hitherto morbidly susceptible, 
to the vehement insolence of Margaret of Anjou, and 
forms the closest alliance with the Lancastrian party; 
in the destruction of which his whole life had pre- 
viously been employed ! 

Here, then, where History leaves us in the dark 
— where our curiosity is the most excited. Fiction 
gropes amidst the ancient chronicles, and seeks to 
detect and to guess the truth. And then. Fiction, 
accustomed to deal with the human heart, seizes 
upon the paramount importance of a Fact which the 
modern historian has been contented to place amongst 
dubious and collateral causes of dissension. We find 
it broadly and strongly stated, by Hall and others, 
that Edward had coarsely attempted the virtue of 
one of the earl’s female relations. ^^And farther it 
erreth not from the truth,” says Hall, “ that the king 
did attempt a thing once in the earl’s house, which 
was much against the earl’s honesty ; — but whether 
it was the daughter or the niece,” adds the chronicler, 
“was not, for both their honors, openly known; 
but mrdy such a thing was attempted by King 
Edward,” &c. 

Any one at all familiar with Hall (and, indeed, 
with all our principal chroniclers, except Fabyan) 
will not expect any accurate precision as to the date 
he assigns for the outrage. He awards to it, there- 
fore, the same date he erroneously gives to Warwick’s 


DEDICATORY EPISTLE. 


XIX 


other grudges (viz. a period brought some years lower 
by all judicious historians), — a date at which War- 
wick was still Edward’s fastest friend. 

Once grant the probability of this insult to the 
earl (the probability is conceded at once by the more 
recent historians, and received without scruple as a 
fact by Bapin, Habington, and Carte), and the whole 
obscurity which involves this memorable . quarrel 
vanishes at once. Here was, indeed, a wrong never 
to be forgiven, and yet never to be proclaimed. As 
Hall implies, the honor of the earl was implicated 
in hushing the scandal, and the honor of Edward in 
concealing the offence. — That, if ever the insult were 
attempted, it must have been just previous to the 
earl’s declared hostility, is clear. Offences of that 
kind hurry men to immediate action at the first, or 
else, if they stoop to dissimulation, the more effect- 
ually to avenge afterwards, the outbreak bides its 
seasonable time. But the time selected by the earl 
for his outbreak was the very worst he could have 
chosen, and attests the influence of a sudden passion 
— a new and uncalculated cause of resentment. He 
had no forces collected — he had not even sounded 
his own brother-in-law. Lord Stanley (since he was 
uncertain of his intentions), while, but a few months 
before, had he felt any desire to dethrone the king, 
he could either have suffered him to be crushed by 
the popular rebellion the earl himself had quelled, or 
have disposed of his person as he pleased, when a 
guest at his own castle of Middleham. His evident 
want of all preparation and forethought — a want 


XX 


DJSDICATORY EPISTLE. 


whicli drove into rapid and compulsory flight from 
England the baron to whose banner, a few months 
afterwards, flocked sixty thousand men — proves that 
the cause of his alienation was fresh and recent. 

If, then, the cause we have referred to, as 
mentioned by Hall and others, seems the most pro- 
bable we can find {no other cause for such abrupt 
hostility being discernible), the date for it must be 
placed where it is. in this work — viz., just prior to 
the earl’s revolt. The next question is, who could 
have been the lady thus oflPenued, whether a niece or 
daughter; scarcely a niece. For Warwick had one 
married brother. Lord Montagu, and several sisters ; 
but the sisters were married to lords who remained 
friendly to Edward,* and Montagu seems to have 
had no daughter out of childhood,! while that noble- 
man himself did not share Warwick’s rebellion at the 
first, but continued to enjoy the confidence of 
Edward. We cannot reasonably, then, conceive the 
uncle to have been so much more revengeful than 
the parents — the legitimate guardians of the honor 
of a daughter. It is, therefore, more probable that 


* Except the sisters married to Lord Fitzhugh and Lord Oxford. 
But though Fitzhugh, or rather his son, broke into rebellion, it 
was for some cause in which Warwick did not sympathize, for by 
Warwick himself was that rebellion put down ; nor could the ag- 
grieved lady have been a daughter of Lord Oxford’s, for he was a 
stanch, though not avowed, Lancastrian, and seems to have care- 
fully kept aloof from the court. 

f Montagu’s wife could have been little more than thirty at the 
time of his death. She married again, and had a family by hei 
second husband. 


DEDICATORY EPISTLE. 


XXI 


the insulted maiden should have been one of Lord 
Warwick’s daughters, and this is the general belief. 
Carte plainly declares it was Isabel. But Isabel it 
could hardly have been; she was then married to 
Edward’s brother, the Duke of Clarence, and within 
a month of her confinement. The earl had only one 
other daughter, Anne, then in the flower of her 
youth ; and though Isabel appears to have possessed 
a more striking character of beauty, Anne must have 
had no inconsiderable charms to have won the love 
of the Lancastrian Prince Edward, and to have in- 
spired a tender and human afiection in Bichard Duke 
of Gloucester.* It is also noticeable, that when, not 


* Not only does Majerus, the Flemish annalist, apeak of Richard’s 
early affection to Anne, but Richard’s pertinacity in marrying her, 
at a time when her family was crushed and fallen, seems to sanction 
the assertion. True, that Richard received with her a considerable 
portion of the estates of her pai’ents. But both Anne herself and 
her parents were attainted, and the whole property at the disposal 
of the crown. Richard at that time had conferred the most im- 
portant services on Edward. He had remained faithful to him 
during the rebellion of Clarence — he had been the hero of the day 
both at Barnet and Tewksbury. His reputation was then exceed- 
ingly high, and if he had demanded, as a legitimate reward, the 
lands of Middleham, without the bride, Edward could not well have 
refused them. He certainly had a much better claim than the only 
other competitor for the confiscated estates — viz., the perjured and 
despicable Clarence. For Anne’s reluctance to marry Richard, and 
the disguise she assumed, see Miss Strickland’s “Life of Anne of 
Warwick.” For the honor of Anne, rather than of Richard, to 
whose memory, one crime more or less, matters but little, it may 
here be observed, that so far from there being any ground to sup- 
pose that Gloucester was an accomplice in the assassination of the 
young Prince Edward of Lancaster, there is some ground to believe 


xxii dedicatory epistle. 

as Shakspeare represents, but after long solicitation, 
and apparently by positive coercion, Anne formed 
ber second marriage, sbe seems to bave been kept 
carefully by Richard from bis gay brother s court, 
and rarely, if ever, to bave appeared in London till 
Edward was no more. 

That considerable obscurity should always rest 
upon the facts connected with Edward’s meditated 
crime — that they should never be published amongst 
the grievances of the haughty rebel, is natural from 
the very dignity of the parties, and the character of 
the offence — that in such obscurity, sober History 
should not venture too far on the hypothesis sug- 
gested by the chronicler, is right and laudable. But 
probably it will be conceded by all, that here Fiction 
finds its lawful province, and that it may reasonably 
help, by no improbable nor groundless conjecture, 
to render connected and clear the most broken and 
the darkest fragments of our annals. 

I have judged it better partially to forestall the 
interest of the reader in my narrative, by stating 
thus openly what he may expect, than to encounter 
the far less favorable impression (if he had been 
hitherto a believer in the old romance of Bona of 
Savoy * *), that the author was taking an unwarrant- 

that that prince was not assassinated at all, but died (as we would 
fain hope the grandson of Henry V. did die) fighting manfully in 
the field. — “ Harleian MSS. ; ” Stowe, “ Chronicle of Tewksbury' 
Sharon Turner, vol. iii. p. 835. 

* 1 say, the old romance of Bona of Savoy — so far as Edward’s 
rejection of her hand for that of Elizabeth Gray, is stated to have 
made the cause of his quarrel with Warwick. But I do not deny 


DEDICATORY EPISTLE. 


xxiii 


able liberty with the real facts, when, in truth, it is 
upon the real facts, as far as they can be ascertained, 
that the author has built his tale, and his boldest 
inventions are but deductions from the amplest evi- 
dence he could collect. Nay, he even ventures to 
believe, that whoever hereafter shall write the history 
of Edward IV. will not disdain to avail himself of 
some suggestions scattered throughout these volumes, 
and tending to throw^ new light upon the events of 
that intricate but important period. 

It is probable that this work will prove more popu- 
lar in its nature than my last fiction of “ Zanoni,” 
which could only be relished by those interested in 
the examination of the various problems in human 
life which it attempts to solve. But both fictions, 
however different and distinct their treatment, are 
constructed on those principles of art to which, in 
all my later works, however imperfect my success, I 
have sought at least steadily to adhere. 

To my mind, a writer should sit down to compose 
a fiction as a painter prepares to compose a picture. 
His first care should be the conception of a whole as 
lofty as his intellect can grasp — as harmonious and 
complete as his art can accomplish ; his second care, 
the character of the interest which the details are 
intended to sustain. 

It is when we compare works of imagination in 
writing, with ’v^orks of imagination on the canvas. 


the possibility that such a marriage had been contemplated and 
advised by Warwick, though he neither sought to negotiate it, nol 
was wronged by Edward’s preference of his fair subject. 


Xxiv OEDICATORY EPISTLE. 

tiiat we can best form a critical idea of the different 
schools which exist in each ; for common both to the 
author and the painter are those styles which we call 
the Familiar, the Picturesque, and the Intellectual. 
By recurring to this comparison we can, without 
much difficulty, classify works of Fiction in their 
proper order, and estimate the rank they should 
severally hold. The Intellectual will probably never 
be the most widely popular for the moment. He 
who prefers to study in this school must be prepared 
for much depreciation, for its greatest excellences, 
even if he achieve them, are not the most obvious to 
the many. In discussing, for instance, a modern 
work, we hear it praised, perhaps, for some striking 
passage, some prominent character; but when do 
we ever hear any comment on its harmony of con- 
struction, on its fulness of design, on its ideal cha- 
racter, — on its essentials, in short, as a work of art ? 
What we hear most valued in the picture, we often 
find the most neglected in the book — viz. the compo- 
sition; and this, simply, because in England painting 
is recognized as an art, and estimated according to 
definite theories. But in literature, we judge from 
a taste never formed — from a thousand prejudices 
and ignorant predilections. We do not yet compre- 
hend that the author is an artist, and that the true 
rules of art by which he should be tested are precise 
and immutable. Hence the singular and fantastic 
caprices of the popular opinion — its exaggerations 
of praise or censure — its passion and reaction. At 
one while, its solemn contempt for Wordsworth — al 


DEDICATORY EPISTLE. 


XXV 


another, its absurd idolatry. At one while, we are 
stunned by the noisy celebrity of Byron — at another, 
we are calmly told that he can scarcely be called a 
poet. Each of these variations in the public is 
implicitly followed by the vulgar criticism ; and as 
a few years back our journals vied with each other 
in ridiculing Wordsworth for the faults which he 
did not possess, they vie now with each other in 
eulogiums upon the merits which he has never dis- 
played. 

These violent fluctuations betray both a public 
and a criticism unschooled in the elementary prin- 
ciples of literary art, and entitle the humblest author 
to dispute the censure of the hour, whi;e they ought 
to render the greatest suspicious of its praise. 

It is, then, in conformity, not with any presump- 
tuous conviction of his own superiority, but with his 
common experience and common sense, that every 
author who addresses an English audience in serious 
earnest is permitted to feel that his final sentence 
rests not with the jury before which he is first heard. 
The literary history of the day consists of a series 
of judgments set aside. 

But this uncertainty must more essentially betide 
every student, however lowly, in the school I have 
called the Intellectual, which must ever be more or 
loss at variance with the popular canons ; it is its 
hard necessity to vex and disturb the lazy quietude 
of vulgar taste, for unless it did so, it could neither 
elevate nor move. He who resigns the Dutcli art for 
the Italian must continue through the dark to 

I._3 


XXVI 


DEDICATORY EPISTLE. 


explore the principles upon whicli he founds his 
design — to which he adapts his execution ; in hope 
or in despondence, still faithful to the theory which 
cares less for the amount of interest created, than 
for the sources from which the interest is to be 
drawn — seeking in action the movement of the 
grander passions, or the subtler springs of conduct 

— seeking in repose the coloring of intellectual 
beauty. 

The Low and the High of Art are not very readily 
comprehended; they depend not upon the worldly 
degree or the physical condition of the characters 
delineated ; they depend entirely upon the quality 
of the emotion which the characters are intended to 
excite — viz., whether of sympathy for something 
low, or of admiration for something high. There is 
nothing high in a boor’s head by Teniers — there is 
nothing low in a boor’s head by Guido. What makes 
the difference between the two ? — The absence or 
presence of the Ideal ! But every one can judge of 
the merit of the first — for it is of the Familiar school 

— it requires a connoisseur to see the merit of the 
last, for it is of the Intellectual. 

I have the less scrupled to leave these remarks to 
cavil or to sarcasm, because this fiction is probably 
the last with which I shall trespass upon the Public, 
and I am desirous that it shall contain, at least, my 
avowal of the principles upon which it and its later 
predecessors have been composed : you know well, 
however others may dispute the fact, the earnest- 
ness with which these principles have been medi- 


DEDICATORY EPISTLE. 


XXVll 


tated aiid pursued — with high desire, if but with 
poor results. 

It is a pleasure to feel that the aim, which I value 
more than the success, is comprehended by one, 
whose exquisite taste as a critic is only impaired by 
that far rarer quality — the disposition to over- 
estimate the person you profess to esteem ! Adieu, 
my sincere and valued friend ; and accept, as a mute 
token of gratitude and regard, these flowers gathered 
in the Garden where we have so often roved to- 
gether. 

E. L. B. 


London, 

January^ 1848 . 



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PEEFACE 


TO 

THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


This was the first attempt of the Author in His- 
torical Eomance upon English ground. Nor would 
he have risked the disadvantage of comparison with 
the genius of Sir Walter Scott, had he not believed 
that that great writer and his numerous imitators 
had left altogether unoccupied the peculiar field in 
Historical Romance which the Author has here 
sought to bring into cultivation. In the Last of 
the Barons,” as in Harold,” the aim has been to 
illustrate the actual history of the period; and to 
bring into fuller display than general History itself 
has done, the characters of the principal personages 
of the time — the motives by which they were pro- 
bably actuated — the state of parties — the condition 
of the people — and the great social interests which 
were involved in what, regarded imperfectly, appear 
but the feuds of rival factions. 

^^The Last of the Barons” has been by many 
esteemed the best of the Author’s romances; and 

(xxix) 


XXX 


PREFACE. 


perhaps in the portraiture of actual character, and 
the grouping of the various interests and agencies 
of the time, it may have produced effects which render 
it more vigorous and life-like than any of the other 
attempts in romance by the same hand. 

It will be observed that the purely imaginary 
characters introduced are very few; and, however 
prominent they may appear, still, in order not to 
interfere with the genuine passions and events of 
history, they are represented as the passive sufferers, 
not the active agents, of the real events. Of these 
imaginary characters, the most successful is Adam 
Warner, the philosopher in advance of his age; in- 
deed, as an ideal portrait, I look upon it as the most 
original in conception, and the most finished in exe- 
cution, of any to be found in my numerous prose 
works, “Zanoni” alone excepted. 

For the rest, I venture to think that the general 
reader will obtain from these pages a better notion 
of the important age, characterized by the decline 
of the feudal system, and immediately preceding that 
great change in society which we usually date from 
the accession of Henry VII., than he could otherwise 
gather without wading through a vast mass of 
neglected chronicles and antiquarian dissertations. 


THE 

LAST OF THE BARONS. 


BOOK FIRST. 

THE ADVENTURES OF MASTER MARMADUKE NEVILB. 


(xxxi) 




“ The Earl of Warwick, commonly known, from the subsequent events, 
by the appellation of the King-maker, had distinguished himself by his 
gallantry in the field, by the hospitality of his table, by the magnificence, 
and still more by the generosity, of bis expense, and by the spirited and 
bold manner which attended him in all his actions. The undesigning 
frankness and openness of his character rendered his conquest over 
men's affections the more certain and infallible; his presents were 
regarded as sure testimonies of esteem and friendship; and his pro- 
fessions as the overflowings of bis genuine sentiments. No less than 
thirty thousand persons are said to have daily lived at his board in the 
different manors and castles which he possessed in England; the 
military men, allured by his munificence and hospitality, as well as by 
his bravery, were zealously attached to his interests; the people in 
general bore him an unlimited affection ; his numerous retainers were 
more devoted to his will, than to the prince or to the laws ; and he was 
THE GUEATEST, AS WELL AS THE LAST, OP THOSE MIGHTY BARONS, WHO 
FORMERLY OVERAWED THE CROWN.” — Hume. 


(xxxii) 


THE 


LAST OF THE BAEONS. 


BOOK FIRST. 


CHAPTEE I. 

The Pastime-Ground of Old Cockaigne. 

Westward, beyond the still pleasant, but, even then, 
no longer solitary, hamlet of Charing, a broad space, 
broken here and there by scattered houses and venerable 
pollards, in the early spring of 1467, presented the rural 
scene for the sports and pastimes of the inhabitants of 
Westminster and London. Scarcely need we say that 
open spaces for the popular games and diversions were 
then numerous in the suburbs of the metropolis. Grate- 
ful to some, the fresh pools of Islington ; to others, the 
grass-bare fields of Finsbury; to all, the hedgeless 
plains of vast Mile-end. But the site to which we are 
now summoned was a new and maiden holiday-ground, 
c (33) 


34 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

lately bestowed upon the townsfolk of Westminster, by 
the powerful Earl of Warwick. 

Raised by a verdant slope above the low marsh-grown 
soil of Westminster, the ground communicated to the 
left with the Brook-fields, through which stole the 
peaceful Ty-bourne, and commanded prospects, on all 
sides fair, and on each side varied. Behind, rose the 
twin green hills of Hampstead and Highgate, with the 
upland park and chase of Marybone — its stately manor- 
house half hid in woods. In front might be seen the 
Convent of the Lepers, dedicated to St. James — now a 
palace ; then, to the left, York House,* now White- 
hall; farther on, the spires of Westminster Abbey and 
the gloomy tower of the Sanctuary; next, the Palace, 
with its bulwark and vawmure, soaring from the river ; 
while, eastward, and nearer to the scene, stretched the 
long bush-grown passage of the Strand, picturesquely 
varied with bridges, and flanked to the right by the em- 
battled halls of feudal nobles, or the inns of the no less 
powerful prelates, — while sombre and huge, amidst hall 
and inn, loomed the gigantic ruins of the Savoy, de- 
molished in the insurrection of Wat Tyler. Farther on, 
and farther yet, the eye wandered over tower, and gate, 
and arch, and spire, with frequent glimpses of the broad 
Bunlit river, and the opposite shore crowned by the 
palace of Lambeth, and the church of St. Mary Overies, 
till the indistinct cluster of battlements around the 


* The residence of the Archbishops of York 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 3? 

Fortress-Palatine bounded the curious gaze. As what 
ever is new is for a while popular, so to this pastime- 
ground, on the day we treat of, flocked, not only the 
idlers of Westminster, but the lordly dwellers of Ludgate 
and the Flete, and the wealthy citizens of tumultuous 
Ohepe. 

The ground was well suited to the purpose to which 
it was devoted. About the outskirts, indeed, there were 
swamps and fish-pools ; but a considerable plot towards 
the centre presented a level sward, already wore bare 
and brown by the feet of the multitude. From this, to- 
wards the left, extended alleys, some recently planted, 
intended to afford, in summer, cool and shady places for 
the favorite game of bowls; while scattered clumps, 
chiefly of old pollards, to the right, broke the space 
agreeably enough into detached portions, each of which 
afforded its separate pastime or diversion. Around 
were ranged many carts, or waggons — horses of all sorts 
and value were led to and fro, while their owners were 
at sport. Tents, awnings, hostelries — temporary build- 
ings — stages for showmen and jugglers — abounded, and 
gave the scene the appearance of a fair. But what 
particularly now demands our attention was a broad plot 
in the ground, dedicated to the noble diversion of archery. 
The reigning house of York owed much of its military 
success to the superiority of the bowmen under its 
banners, and the Londoners themselves were jealous of 
their reputation in this martial accomplishment. For the 
last fifty years, notwithstanding the warlike nature of the 


36 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

times, the practice of the bow, iu the intervals of peace, 
had been more neglected than seemed wise to the rulers. 
Both the king and his loyal city had of late taken much 
pains to enforce the due exercise of “ Goddes instru- 
raente,” * upon which an edict had declared that “ the 
liberties and honor of England principally rested I ” 

And numerous now was the attendance, not only of 
the citizens, the burghers, and the idle populace, but of 
the gallant nobles who surrounded the court of Edward 
IV., then in the prime of his youth ; the handsomest, the 
gayest, and the bravest prince in Christendom. 

The royal tournaments (which were, however, waning 
from their ancient lustre to kindle afresh, and to expire 
in the reigns of the succeeding Tudors), restricted to the 
amusements of knight and noble, no doubt presented 
more of pomp and splendor than the motley and mixed 
assembly of all ranks that now grouped around the com- 
petitors for the silver arrow, or listened to the itinerant 
jongleur, dissour, or minstrel; — or, seated under the 
stunted shade of the old trees, indulged with eager looks, 
and hands often wandering to their dagger-hilts, in the 
absorbing passion of the dice ; but no later and earlier 
scenes of revelry ever, perhaps, exhibited that heartiness 
of enjoyment, that universal holiday, which attended 
this mixture of every class, and established a rude equality 
f(n- the hour— between the knight and the retainer, the 
burgess and the courtier 

* So ca’!e l emphatically by Bishop Latimer, in his celebrated 
Sixth Sermon. 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 31 

The revolution that placed Edward lY. upon the 
throne, had, in fact, been a popular one. Not only had 
the valor and moderation of his father, Richard, Duke 
of York, bequeathed a heritage of affection to his biave 
and accomplished son — not only were the most beloved 
of the great barons, the leaders of his party — but the 
king himself, partly from inclination, partly from policy, 
spared no pains to win the good graces of that slowly 
rising, but even then important part of the population — 
the Middle Class. He was the first king who descended, 
without loss of dignity and respect, from the society of 
his peers and princes, to join familiarly in the feasts and 
diversions of the merchant and the trader. The lord 
mayor and council of London were admitted, on more 
than one solemn occasion, into the deliberations of the 
court ; and Edward had not long since, on the corona- 
tion of his queen, much to the discontent of certain of his 
barons, conferred the knighthood of the Bath upon four 
of the citizens. On the other hand, though Edward’s 
gallantries — the only vice which tended to diminish his 
popularity with the sober burgesses — were little worthy 
of his station, his frank, joyous familiarity with his 
inferiors, was not debased by the buffooneries that had 
led to the reverses and the awful fate of two of his royal 
predecessors. There must have been a popular principle, 
indeed, as well as a popular fancy, involved in the steady 
and ardent adherence which the population of London, 
in particular, and most of the great cities, exhibited to 
me person and the cause of Edward lY. There was a 

L— 4 


S8 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


feeling that bis reign was an advance, in civilization, 
upon the monastic virtues of Henry YI., and the stern 
ferocity which accompanied the great qualities of The 
Foreign Woman,” as the people styled and regarded 
Henry’s consort, Margaret of Anjou. While thus the 
gifts, the courtesy, and the policy of the young sovereign 
made him popular with the middle classes, he owed the 
allegiance of the more powerful barons and the favor of 
the rural population to a man who stood colossal amidst 
the iron images of the Age — the greatest and the last 
of the old Norman chivalry — kinglier in pride, in state, 
in possessions, and in renown, than the king himself— 
Richard Nevile, Earl of Salisbury and Warwick. 

This princely personage, in the full vigor of his age, 
possessed all the attributes that endear the noble to the 
commons. His valor in the field was accompanied with 
a generosity rare in the captains of the time. He valued 
himself on sharing the perils and the hardships of his 
meanest soldier. His haughtiness to the great was not 
incompatible with frank affability to the lowly. His 
wealth was enormous, but it was equalled by his magnifi- 
cence, and rendered popular by his lavish hospitality. 
No less than thirty thousand persons are said to have 
feasted daily at the open tables with which he allured to 
his countless castles the strong hands and grateful hearts 
of a martial and unsettled population. More haughty 
than ambitious, he was feared because he avenged all 
affront ; and yet not envied, because he seemed above all 
favor. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 39 

The holiday on the Archery-ground was more tnan 
usually gay, for the rumor had spread from the court to 
the city, that Edward was about to increase his power 
abroad, and to repair what he had lost in the eyes of 
Europe, through his marriage with Elizabeth Gray — by 
allying his sister Margaret with the brother of Louis XL, 
and that no less a person than the Earl of Warwick had 
been the day before selected as ambassador on the im- 
portant occasion. 

Yarious opinions were entertained upon the preference 
given to France in this alliance, over the rival candidate 
for the hand of the princess — viz. the Count de Charo- 
lois, afterwards Charles the Bold, Duke of Burgundy. 

“ By’r Lady,” said a stout citizen about the age of 
fifty, “ but I am not over pleased with this French mar- 
riage-making I I would liefer the stout earl were going 
to France with bows and bills, than sarcenets and satins. 
What will become of our trade with Flanders — answer 
me that. Master Stokton ? The house of York is a good 
house, and the king is a good king, but trade is trade. 
Every man must draw water to his own mill.” 

“ Hush, Master Heyford ! ” said a small lean man in a 
light-grey surcoat. “ The king loves not talk about what 
the king does. ’Tis ill jesting with lions. Remember 
William Walker, hanged for saying his son should be heir 
to the Crown.” 

“ Troth,” answered Master Heyford, nothing daunted, 
for he belonged to one of the most powerful corporations 


40 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

of London — “it was but a scurvy Pepperer* who made 
that joke. But a joke from a worshipful goldsmith, who 
has moneys and influence, and a fair wife of his own, 
whom the king has been pleased to commend, is another 
guess sort of matter. But here is my grave-visaged head- 
man, who always contrives to pick up the last gossip 
astir, and has a deep eye into millstones. Why, ho, 
there I Alwyn — I say, Nicholas Alwyn I — who would have 
thought to see thee with that bow, a good half-ell taller 
than thyself? Methought thou wert too sober and stu- 
dious for such man-at-arms sort of deviltry.” 

“An’ it please you. Master Heyford,” answered the 
person thus addressed — a young man, pale and le.an, 
though sinewy and large-boned, with a countenance of 
great intelligence, but a slow and somewhat formal man- 
ner of speech, and a strong provincial accent — “An’ it 
please you King Edward’s edict ordains every English- 
man to have a bow of his own height; and he who ne- 
glects the shaft on a holiday, forfeiteth one half-penny 
and some honor. For the rest, methinks that the citizens 
of London will become of more worth and potency every 
year; and it shall not be my fault if I do not, though but 
a humble headman to your worshipful mastership, help 
to make them so.” 

“ Why, that’s well said, lad ; but if the Londoners 
prosper, it is because they have nobles in their gipsire8,f 
not bows in their hands.” 


* Old name for Grocer, 

f Qipsire, a kind of pouch worn at the girdle. 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


41 


” Thinkest thou, then, Master Heyford, that any king 
at a pinch would leave them the gipsire, if they could not 
protect it with the bow ? That Age may have gold, let 
not Youth despise iron.” 

“Body o’ me!” cried Master Heyford, “but thou 
hadst better curb in thy tongue. Though I have my jest 
— as a rich man and a corpulent — a lad who has his way 
to make good should be silent and — but he’s gone.” 

“Where hooked you up that young jack-fish ?” said 
Master Stokton, the thin mercer, who had reminded the 
goldsmith of the fate of the grocer. 

“ Why, he was meant for the cowl, but his mother, a 
widow, at his own wish, let him make choice of the flat 
cap. He was the best ’prentice ever I had. By the blood 
of St. Thomas, he will push his way in good time ; he has 
a head, Master Stokton — a head — and an ear; and a 
great big pair of eyes always looking out for something 
to his proper advantage.” 

In the meanwhile, the goldsmith’s headman had walked 
leisurely up to the Archery-ground ; and even in his gait 
and walk, as he thus repaired to a pastime, there was 
something steady, staid, and business-like. 

The youths of his class and calling were at that day 
very dilferent from their equals in thi^. Many of them 
the sons of provincial retainers, some even of franklins and 
gentlemen, their childhood had made them familiar with 
the splendor and the sports of knighthood ; they had 
learned to wrestle, to cudgel, to pitch the bar or the quoit, 
to draw the bow, and to practise the sword and buckler, 
4 * 


42 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


before transplanted from the village green to the city 
stall And, even then, the constant broils and wars of 
the time — the example of their betters — the holiday 
spectacle of mimic strife — and, above all, the powerful 
and corporate association they formed amongst them- 
selves — tended to make them as wild, as jovial, and as 
dissolute a set of young fellows as their posterity are 
now sober, careful, and discreet. And as Nicholas 
^^Alwyn, with a slight inclination of his head, passed by, 
two or three loud, swaggering, bold-looking groups of 
apprentices — their shaggy hair streaming over their 
shoulders — their caps on one side — their short cloaks 
of blue, torn or patched, though still passably new — 
their bludgeons under their arms — and their whole ap- 
pearance and manner not very dissimilar from the 
German collegians in the last century — notably con- 
trasted Alwyn’s prim dress, his precise walk, and the 
feline care with which he stepped aside from any patches 
of mire that might sully the soles of his square-toed 
shoes. 

The idle apprentices winked and whispered, and lolled 
out their tongues at him as he passed. “ Oh I but that 
must be as good as a May-Fair day — sober Nick Alwyn’s 
maiden flight of tlie shaft. Hollo, puissant archer, take 
care of the goslings yonder ! Look this way when thou 
pull’st, and then woe to the other side ! ” Venting these 
and many similar specimens of the humor of Cockaigne, 
the apprentices, however, followed their quondam col- 
league, and elbowed their way into the crowd gathered 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 43 

around the competitors at the butts ; and it was at this 
spot, commanding a view of the whole space, that the 
spectator might well have formed some notion of the 
vast following of the house of Nevile. For everywhere 
along the front lines — * everywhere in the scattered 
groups — might be seen, glistening in the sunlight, the 
armorial badges of that mighty family. The Pied Bull, 
which was the proper cognizance * of the Neviles, was 
principally borne by the numerous kinsmen of Earl War- ^ 
wick, who rejoiced in the Nevile name. The Lord 
Montagu, Warwick’s brother, to whom the king had 
granted the forfeit title and estates of the earls of 
Northumberland, distinguished his own retainers, how- 
ever, by the special crest of the ancient Montagus — a 
Gryphon issuant from a ducal crown. But far more 
numerous than Bull or Gryphon (numerous as either 
seemed) were the badges borne by those who ranked 
themselves among the peculiar followers of the great 
Earl of Warwick: — The cognizance of the Bear, and 
Ragged Staff, which he assumed in right of the Beau- 
champs, whom he represented through his wife, the 
heiress of the lords of Warwick, was worn in the hats of 
the more gentle and well-born clansmen and followers, 
while the Ragged Staff alone was worked front and 
back on the scarlet jackets of his more humble and 
personal retainers. It was a matter of popular notice 
and admiration that in those who bore these badges, as 


The Pied Cull the cognizance— the Dun Bull’s head the crest. 


44 


THE lAsT op the BARONS. 


in the wearers of the hat and staff of the ancient Spar- 
tans, might be traced a grave loftiness of bearing, as if 
they belonged to another caste — another race, than the 
herd of men. Near the place where the rivals for the 
silver arrow were collected, a lordly party had reined in 
their palfreys, and conversed with each other, as the 
judges of the field were marshalling the competitors. 

*‘Who,” said one of these gallants, “who is that 
comely young fellow just below us, with the Nevile cog- 
nizance of the Bull on his hat? He has the air of one 
I should know.” 

“I never saw him before, my Lord of Northumber- 
land,” answered one of the gentlemen thus addressed, 
“ but, pardieu, he who knows all the Neviles by eye, 
must know half England.” The Lord Montagu, for 
though at that moment invested with the titles of the 
Percy, by that name Earl Warwick’s brother is known 
to history, and by that, his rightful name, he shall there- 
fore be designated in these pages ; — the Lord Montagu 
smiled graciously at this remark, and a murmur through 
the crowd announced that the competition for the silver 
arrow was about to commence. The butts, formed of 
turf, with a small white mark fastened to the centre by 
a very minute peg, were placed apart, one at each end, 
at the distance of eleven score yards. At the extremity, 
where the shooting commenced, the crowd assembled, 
taking care to keep clear from the opposite butt, as the 
warning word of “ East ” was thundered forth ; but eager 
was the general murmur, and many were the wagers 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


45 


giyen and accepted, as some well-known archer tried his 
chance. Near the butt, that now formed the target, 
stood the marker with his white wand ; and the rapidity 
with which archer after archer discharged his shaft, and 
then, if it missed, hurried across the ground to pick it up 
(for arrows were dear enough not to be lightly lost), 
amidst the jeers and laughter of the bystanders, was 
highly animated and diverting. As yet, however, no 
marksman had hit the white, though many had gone 
close to it, when Nicholas Alwyn stepped forward ; and 
there was something so unwarlike in his whole air, so 
prim in his gait, so careful in his deliberate survey of the 
shaft, and his precise adjustment of the leathern gauntlet 
that protected the arm from the painful twang of the 
string, that a general burst of laughter from the by- 
standers attested their anticipation of a signal failure. 

“ ’Fore heaven I ” said Montagu, “ he handles his bow 
an’ it were a yard measure. One would think he were 
about to bargain for the bow-string, he eyes it so 
closely.” 

“And now,” said Nicholas, slowly adjusting the arrow, 
“a shot for the honor of old Westmoreland I” And as 
he spoke, the arrow sprang gallantly forth, and quivered 
in the very heart of the white. There was a general 
movement of surprise among the spectators, as the 
marker thrice shook his wand over his head. But 
Alwyn, as indilferent to their respect as he had been to 
their ridicule, turned round and said, with a significant 


46 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

glance at the silent nobles, “We springals of London 
can take care of our own, if need be.” 

“ These fellows wax insolent. Our good king spoils 
them,” said Montagu, with a curl of his lip. “ I wish 
some young squire of gentle blood would not disdain a 
shot for the Nevile against the craftsman. How say 
you, fair sir ? ” And, with a princely courtesy of mien 
and smile, Lord Montagu turned to the young man he 
had noticed, as wearing the cognizance of the First 
House in England. The bow was not the customary 
weapon of the well-born ; but still, in youth, its exer- 
cise formed one of the accomplishments of the future 
knight, and even princes did not disdain, on a popular 
holiday, to match a shaft against the yeoman’s cloth- 
yard.* The young man thus addressed, and whose 
honest, open, handsome, hardy face augured a frank and 
fearless nature, bowed his head in silence, and then 
slowly advancing to the umpires, craved permission to 
essay his skill, and to borrow the loan of a shaft and 
bow. Leave given and the weapons lent — as the young 
gentleman took his stand, his comely person, his dress, 
of a better quality than that of the competitors hitherto, 
and, above all, the Nevile badge worked in silver on his 
hat, diverted the general attention from Nicholas Alwyn. 
A mob is usually inclined to aristocratic predilections, 
and a murmur of good-will and expectation greeted 

* At a later period, Henry VIll. was a match for the best bow- 
man in his kingdom. His accomplishment was hereditary, au(l 
distinguished alike his wise father and his pious son 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 47 

him, when he put aside the gauntlet offered to him, and 
said, “In my youth I was taught so to brace the bow 
that the string should not touch the arm ; and though 
eleven score yards be but a boy’s distance, a good archer 
will lay his body into his bow * as much as if he were to 
hit the hlanc four hundred yards away.” 

“A tall fellow this I ” said Montagu ; “ and one, I 
wot, from the North,” as the young gallant fitted the 
shaft to the bow. And graceful and artistic was the 
attitude he assumed, the head slightly inclined, the feet 
firmly planted, the left a little in advance, and the 
stretched sinews of the bow-hand alone evincing that 
into that grasp was pressed the whole strength of the 
easy and careless frame. The public expectation was 
not disappointed — the youth performed the feat con- 
sidered of all the most dexterous, his arrow disdaining 
the white mark, struck the small peg which fastened it 
to the butts, and which seemed literally invisible to the 
bystanders. 

“ Holy St. Dunstan I there’s but one man who can 
beat me in that sort that I know of,” muttered Nicholas, 
“ and I little expected to see him take a bite out of his 
own hip.” With that he approached his successful 
rival. 

* “ My father taught me to lay my body in my bow,” &c., said 
Latimer, in his well-known sermon before Edward VI. — 1549. The 
Bishop also herein observes, that “ it is best to give the bow so 
much bending that the string need never touch the arm. This,” 
he adds, “is practised by many good archers with whom I am ac- 
quainted.” 


48 


THE LABT OF THE BARONS. 


“Well, Master Marraaduke,’^ said he. “it is many a 
year since* you showed me that trick at your father, Sir 
Guy’s — God rest him I But I scarce take it kind in you 
to beat your own countryman I ” 

“ Beshrew me I ” cried the youth, and his cheerful 
features brightened into hearty and cordial pleasure ; 
“ but if I see in thee, as it seems to me, my old friend 
and foster-brother, Nick Alwyn, this is the happiest 
hour I have known for many a day. But stand back 
and let me look at thee,, man ! Thou I thou a tame 
London trader I Ha ! ha 1 — is it possible ? ” 

“ Hout, Master Marmaduke,” answered Nicholas, 
“ every crow thinks his own baird bonniest, as they say 
in the North. We will talk of this anon, an’ thou wilt 
honor me. I suspect the archery is over now. * Few 
will think to mend that shot.” 

And here, indeed, the umpires advanced, and their 
chief — an old mercer, who had once borne arms, and 
indeed been a volunteer at the battle of Touton — declared 
that the contest was over, “unless,” he added, in the 
spirit of a lingering fellow-feeling with the Londoner, 
“ this young fellow, whom I hope to see an alderman 
one of these days, will demand another shot, for as yet 
there hath been but one prick each at the butts.” 

“ Nay, master,” returned Alwyn, “I have met with my 
betters — and, after all,” he added, indifferently, “the 
silver arrow, though a pretty bauble enough, is over light 
in its weight.” 

“Worshipful sir,” said the young Nevile, with equal 


40 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

generosity, “ I cannot accept the prize for a mere trick 
of the craft — the blanc was already disposed of by 
Master Alwyn’s arrow. Moreover, the contest was in- 
tended for the Londoners, and I am but an interloper — 
beholden to their courtesy for a practice of skill — and 
even the loan of a bow — wherefore the silver an’ow be 
given to Nicholas Alwyn.” 

“ That may not be, gentle sir,” said the umpire, ex- 
tending the prize. “Sith Alwyn vails of himself, it is 
thine, by might and by right.” 

The Lord Montagu had not been inattentive to this 
dialogue, and he now said, in a loud tone that silenced 
the crowd, “Young Badgeman, thy gallantry pleases 
me no less than thy skill. Take the arrow, for thou 
hast won it ; but as thou seemest a new comer, it is right 
thou shouldst pay thy tax upon entry — this be my task. 
Come hither, I pray thee, good sir,” and the nobleman 
graciously beckoned to the mercer ; “ be these five 
nobles the prize of whatever Londoner shall acquit him- 
self best in the bold English combat of quarter-staff, 
and the prize be given in this young archer’s name. 
Thy name, youth ? ” 

“Marraaduke Nevile, good my lord.” 

Montagu smiled, and the umpire withdrew to make 
the announcement to the bystanders. The proclamation 
was received with a shout that traversed from group to 
group, and line to line, more hearty from the love and 
honor attached to the name of Nevile, than even from a 
sense of the gracious generosity of Earl Warwick’s bro- 
I. — 5 


D 


50 THE LAST or THE BARONS. 

ther. One man alone, a sturdy, well-knit fellow, in a 
franklin’s Lincoln broadcloth, and with a hood half- 
drawn over his features, did not join the popular ap- 
plause. “These Yorkists,” he muttered, “know well 
how to fool the people.” 

Meanwhile, the young Nevile still stood by the gilded 
stirrup of the great noble who had thus honored him, 
and contemplated him with that respect and interest 
which a youth’s ambition ever feels for those who have 
won a name. 

The Lord Montagu bore a very different character 
from his puissant brother. Though so skilful a captain, 
that he had never been known to lose a battle, his fame 
as a warrior was, strange to say, below that of the great 
earl, whose prodigious strength had accomplished those 
personal feats that dazzled the populace, and revived 
the legendary renown of the earlier Norman knighthood. 
The caution and wariness indeed which Montagu dis- 
played in battle, probably caused his success as a general, 
and the injustice done to him (at least by the vulgar) as 
a soldier. Rarely had Lord Montagu, though his 
courage was indisputable, been known to mix personally 
in the affray. Like the captains of modern times, he 
contented himself with directing the manoeuvres of his 
men, and hence preserved that inestimable advantage of 
coolness and calculation, which was not always character- 
istic of the eager hardihood of his brother. The cha- 
racter of Montagu differed yet more from that of the 
earl in peace than in war. He was supposed to excel 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


51 


in all those supple arts of the courtier, which Warwick 
neglected or despised ; and if the last was, on great 
occasions, the adviser, the other, in ordinary life, was 
the companion of his sovereign. Warwick owed his 
popularity to his own large, open, daring, and lavish 
nature. The subtler Montagu sought to win, by care 
and pains, what the other obtained without an effort. 
He attended the various holiday meetihgs of the citizens, 
where Warwick was rarely seen. He was smooth-spoken 
and courteous to his equals, and generally affable, though 
with constraint, to his inferiors. He was a close observer, 
and not without that genius for intrigue, which in rude 
ages passes for the talent of a statesman. And yet in 
that thorough knowledge of the habits and tastes of the 
great mass, which gives wisdom to a ruler, he was far 
inferior to the earl. In common with his brother, he 
was gifted with the majesty of mien which imposes on 
the eye, and his port and countenance were such as be- 
came the prodigal expense of velvet, minever, gold, and 
jewels, by which the gorgeous magnates of the day com- 
municated to their appearance the arrogant splendor of 
their power. “Young gentleman,” said the earl, after 
eyeing with some attention the comely archer, “I am 
pleased that you bear the name of Nevile. Youchsafe 
to inform me to what scion of our house we are this day 
indebted for the credit with which you have upborne its 
cognizance ? ” 

“ I fear,” answered the youth, with a slight, but not 
ungraceful hesitation, “that my lord of Montagu and 


52 


THE LAST or THE BARONS. 


Northumberland will hardly forgive the presumption 
with which I have intruded upon this assembly a name 
borne by nobles so illustrious, especially if it belong to 
those less fortunate branches of his family which have 
taken a different side from himself in the late unhappy 
commotions. My father was Sir Ouy Nevile, of Arsdale, 
in Westmoreland.” 

Lord Montagu’s lip lost its gracious smile — he glanced 
quickly at tiie courtiers round him, and said gravely — 
“ I grieve to hear it. Had I known this, certes my 
gipsire had still been five nobles the richer. It becomes 
not one fresh from the favor of King Edward lY. to 
show countenance to the son of a man, kinsman though 
he was, who bore arms for the usurpers of Lancaster. 
I pray thee, sir, to doff, henceforth, a badge dedicated 
only to the service of Royal York. No more, young 
man ; we may not listen to the son of Sir Guy Nevile. 

Sirs, shall we ride to see how the Londoners thrive 

at quarter-staff ? ” 

With that, Montagu, deigning no farther regard at 
Nevile, wheeled his palfrey towards a distant part of the 
ground, to which the multitude was already pressing its 
turbulent and noisy way. 

“ Thou art hard on thy namesake, fair my lord,” said 
a young noble, in whose dark-auburn hair, aquiline 
haughty features, spare but powerful frame, and inex- 
pressible air of authority and command, were found all 

the attributes of the purest and eldest Norman race 

the Patricians of the World. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 53 

Dear Raoul de Fulke/’ returned Montagu, coldly, 
“ when thou hast reached my age of thirty and four, thou 
wilt learn that no man’s fortune casts so broad a shadow 
as to shelter from the storm the victims of a fallen 
cause.” 

“ Not so would say thy bold brother,” answered Raoul 
de Fulke, with a slight curl of his proud lip. “And I 
hold, with him, that no king is so sacred that we should 
render to his resentments our own kith and kin. God’s 
wot, whosoever wears the badge, and springs from the 
stem, of Raoul de Fulke, shall never find me question 
overmuch whether his father fought for York or Lan- 
caster. ” 

“Hush, rash babbler!” said Montagu, laughing 
gently ; “ what would King Edward say if this speech 
reached his ears ? Our friend,” added the courtier, turn- 
ing to the rest, “ in vain would bar the tide of change ; 
and in this our New England, begirt with new men and 
new fashions, affect the feudal baronage of the worn-out 
Norman. But thou art a gallant knight, De Fulke, 
though a poor courtier.’’ 

“ The saints keep me so,” returned De Fulke. “ From 
over-gluttony, from over wine-bibbing, from cringing to 
a king’s leman, from quaking at a king’s frown, from 
unbonneting to a greasy mob, from marrying an old 
crone for vile gold, may the saints ever keep Raoul de 
Fulke and his sons I Amen!” 

This speech, in which every sentence struck its stiiig- 
i[ig satire into one or other of the listeners, was sue 
5 * 


64 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


ceeded by an awkward silence, which Montagu was the 
first to break. 

“ Pardieu I ’’ he said, when did Lord Hastings leave 
us ? and what fair face can have lured the truant ? ” 

“ He left us suddenly on the archery-ground,” answered 
the young Lovell. ‘‘ But as well might we track the 
breeze to the rose, as Lord William’s sigh to maid or 
matron.” 

While thus conversed the cavaliers, and their plumes 
waved, and their mantles glittered along the broken 
ground, Marmaduke Nevile’s eye pursued the horsemen 
with all that bitter feeling of wounded pride and impo- 
tent resentment with which Youth regards the first insult 
it receives from Power. 


CHAPTER II. 

The broken Gittern. 

Rousing himself from his indignant reverie, Marma- 
duke Nevile followed one of the smaller streams into 
which the crowd divided itself on dispersing from the 
archery-ground, and soon found himself in a part of the 
holiday scene appropriated to diversions less manly, but 
no less characteristic of the period than those of the 
staff and arrow. Beneath an awning, under which an 
itinerant landlord dispensed cakes and ale, the humorous 
Bourdour (the most vulgar degree of minstrel, or ratiier 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS 


55 


tale-teller) collected his clownish audience, while seated 
by themselves — apart, but within hearing — two narpers, 
in the king’s livery, consoled each other for the popularity 
of their ribald rival, by wise reflections on the base na- 
ture of common folk. Farther on, Marmaduke started 
to behold what seemed to him the head^ of giants at least 
six yards high ; but on a nearer approach, these formid- 
able apparitions resolved themselves into a company of 
dancers upon stilts. There, one joculator, exhibited the 
antics of his well-tutored ape — there, another eclipsed the 
attractions of the baboon by a marvellous horse, that 
beat a tabor with his fore feet — there the more sombre 
Tregetour, before a table raised upon a lofty stage, prom- 
ised to cut ofi* and refix the head of a sad-faced little 
boy, who, in the mean time, was preparing his mortal 
frame for the operation by apparently larding himself 
with sharp knives and bodkins. Each of these wonder- 
dealers found his separate group of admirers, and great 
was the delight and loud the laughter in the pastime- 
ground of old Cockaigne. 

While Marmaduke, bewildered by this various bustle, 
stared around him, his eye was caught by a young maiden, 
in evident distress, struggling in vain to extricate herself 
from a troop of timbrel-girls, or tymbesteres (as they were 
popularly called), who surrounded her with mocking ges- 
tures, striking their instruments to drown her remonstran- 
ces, and dancing about her in a ring at every effort to- 
wards escape. The girl was modestly attired, as one of 
the humbler ranks, and her wimple in much concealed her 


56 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

countenance ; but there was, despite her strange and un- 
dignified situation and evident alarm, a sort of quiet, 
earnest self-possession — an effort to hide her terror, and 
to appeal to the better and more womanly feelings of her 
persecutors. In the intervals of silence from their clamor, 
her voice, though low, clear, well tuned, and impressive, 
forcibly arrested the attention of young Nevile ; for at 
that day, even more than this (sufficiently apparent as it 
now is), there was a marked distinction in the intonation, 
the accent, the modulation of voice, between the better- 
bred and better-educated, and the inferior classes. But 
this difference, so ill according with her dress and position, 
only served to heighten more the bold insolence of the 
musical Bacchantes, who, indeed, in the eyes of the sober, 
formed the most immoral nuisance attendant on the sports 
of the time, and whose hardy license and peculiar sister- 
hood might tempt the antiquarian to search for their 
origin amongst the relics of ancient Paganism. And 
now, to increase the girl’s distress, some half-score of dis- 
solute apprentices and journeymen suddenly broke into 
the ring of the Maenads, and were accosting her with yet 
more alarming insults, when Marmaduke, pushing them 
aside, strode to her assistance. “ How now, ye lewd var- 
lets 1 — ye make me blush for my countrymen in the face 
of day I Are these the sports of merry England — these 
your manly contests — to strive which can best affront a 
poor maid ?— Out on ye, cullions and bezonians ! — Cling 
to me, gentle donzel, and fear not. Whither shall I lead 
thee ? ” 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 5'J 

The apprentices were not, however, so easily daunted 
Two of them approached to the rescue, flourishing their 
bludgeons about their heads with formidable gestures — 

Ho, ho I ” cried one, “ what right hast thou to step be- 
tween the hunters and the doe ? The young quean is too 
much honored by a kiss from a bold ’prentice of London.” 

Marmaduke stepped back, and drew the small dagger 
which then formed the only habitual weapon of a gentle- 
man.* This movement, discomposing his mantle, brought 
the silver arrow he had won (which was placed in his 
girdle) in full view of the assailants. At the same time 
they caught sight of the badge on his hat. These intimi- 
dated their ardor more than the drawn poniard. 

“A Nevilel” said one, retreating. “And the jolly 
marksman who beat Nick Alwyn,”said the other, lower- 
ing his bludgeon, and doffing his cap. “ Gentle sir, for- 
give us, we knew not your quality. But as for the girl 
— your gallantry misleads you.” 

“ The Wizard’s daughter 1 ha I ha ! — the Imp of Dark- 
ness I ” screeched the timbrel-girls, tossing up their in- 
struments, and catching them again on the points of their 
fingers. “ She has enchanted him with her glamour. Foul 
is fair I Foul fair thee, young springal, if thou go to the 
nets. Shadow and goblin to goblin and shadow ! Flesh 
and blood to blood and flesh ! ” — and dancing round him, 
with wanton looks and bare arms, and gossamer robes 
that brushed him as they circled, they chanted — 


* Swords were not worn, in peace, at that period. 


58 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


“Come, kiss me, my darling, 

Warm kisses I trade for; 

Wine, music, and kisses — 

What else was life made for ! ” 

With 5orae difficulty, and with a disgust which was 
not altogether without a superstitious fear of the strange 
words and the outlandish appearance of these loathsome 
Dalilahs, Marmaduke broke from the ring with his new 
charge ; and in a few moments the Nevile and the maiden 
found themselves, unmolested and unpursued, in a deserted 
quarter of the ground ; but still the scream of the tim- 
brel-girls, as they hurried, wheeling and dancing, into 
the distance, was borne ominously to the young man’s 
ear, — “ Ha, ha I the witch and her lover ! Foul is fair 1 
— foul is fair I Shadow to goblin, goblin to shadow — 
and the Devil will have his own I ” 

“And what mischance, my poor girl,” asked the Nev- 
ile soothingly, “brought thee into such evil company ?” 

“I know not, fair sir,” said the girl, slowly recovering 
herself ; “but my father is poor, and I had heard that on 
these holiday occasions one who had some slight skill on 
the gittern might win a few groats from the courtesy of 
the bystanders. So I stole out with my serving-woman, 
and had already got more than I dared hope, when those 
wicked timbrel-players came round me, and accused me 
of taking the money from them. And then they called 
an officer of the ground, who asked me my name and 
holding ; so when I answered, they called my father a 
wizard, and the man broke my poor gittern — see I ” — and 
she held it up, with innocent sorrow in her eyes, yet a 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 59 

half-smile on her lips — ‘‘and they soon drove poor old 
Madge from ray side, and I knew no more till you, wor- 
shipful sir, took pity on me.” 

“But why,” asked the Nevile, “did they give to your 
father so unholy a name ? ” 

“ Alas, sir ! he is a great scholar, who has spent his 
means in studying what he says will one day be of good 
to the people.” 

“Humph !” said Marmaduke, who had all the super- 
stitions of his time, who looked upon a scholar, unless in 
the Church, with mingled awe and abhorrence, and who, 
therefore, was but ill satisfied with the girl’s artless an- 
swer, — 

“ Humph ! your father — but ” — checking what he was 
about, perhaps harshly, to say, as he caught the bright 
eyes and arch intelligent face lifted to his own — “ but it 
is hard to punish the child for the father’s errors.” 

“ Errors, sir ! ” repeated the damsel, proudly, and with 
a slight disdain in her face and voice. “ But yes, wisdom 
is ever, perhaps, the saddest error I ” 

This remark was of an order superior in intellect to 
those which had preceded it : it contrasted with the stern- 
ness of experience the simplicity of the child ^ and of 
such contrasts, indeed, was that character made up. For 
with a sweet, an infantine change of tone and countenance, 
she added, after a short pause — “ They took the money I 
— the gitterp., — see, they left that, when they had made it 
useless.” 


60 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

“ I cannot mend the gittern, but I can refill the gip- 
sire,’’ said Marraaduke. 

The girl colored deeply. “ Nay, sir, to earn is not to 
beg.^’ 

Marmaduke did not heed this answer, for as they were 
now passing by the stunted trees, under which sat several 
revellers, who looked up at him from their cups and 
tankards, some with sneering, some with grave looks, he 
began, more seriously than in his kindly impulse he had 
hitherto done, to consider the appearance it must have, 
to be thus seen walking, in public, with a girl of inferior 
degree, and perhaps doubtful repute. Even in our own 
day, such an exhibition would be, to say the least, sus- 
picious, and in that day, when ranks and classes were 
divided with iron demarcations, a young* gallant, whose 
dress bespoke him of gentle quality, with one of opposite 
sex, and belonging to the humbler orders, in broad day 
too, was far more open to censure. The blood mounted 
to his brow, and halting abruptly, he said, in a dry and 
altered voice — “ My good damsel, you are now, I think, 
out of danger ; it would ill beseem you, so young and so 
comely, to go further with one not old enough to be your 
protector, so, in God’s name, depart quickly, and remem- 
ber me when you buy your new gittern — poor child ! ” 
So saying, he attempted to place a piece of money in her 
hand. She put it back, and the coin fell on the ground. 

“ Nay, this is foolish,” said he. 

“ Alas, sir I ” said the girl, gravely, “ I see well that 


THE LAST OE THE BARONS. 61 

you are ashamed of your goodness. But my father begs 
not. And once — but that matters not.’’ 

Once what ? ” persisted Marmaduke, interested in 
her manner, in spite of himself. 

“ Once,” said the girl, drawing herself up, and with an 
expression that altered the whole character of her face — 
“the beggar ate at my father’s gate. He is a born gen- 
tleman and a knight’s son. 

“And what reduced him thus?” 

“ I have said,” answered the girl, simply, yet with the 
same half-scorn oh her lip that it had before betrayed — 
“he is a scholar, and thought more of others than him- 
self.” 

“ I never saw any good come to a gentleman from 
those accursed books,” said the Nevile ; “fit only for 
monks and shavelings. But still, for your father’s sake, 
though I am ashamed of the poorness of the gift- ” 

“No — God be with you, sir, and reward you.” She 
stopped short, drew her wimple round her face, and was 
gone. Nevile felt an uncomfortable sensation of remorse 
and disapproval at having suffered her to quit him while 
there was yet any chance of molestation or annoyance, 
and his eye followed her till a group of trees veiled her 
from his view. 

The young maiden slackened her pace as she found 
herself alone under the leafless boughs of the dreary pol- 
lards ; — a desolate spot, made melancholy by dull swamps, 
half overgrown with rank verdure, through which forced 
its clogged way the shallow brook that now gives its 

I. — 6 


62 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


name (though its waves are seen no more) to one of the 
main streets in the most polished quarter of the metropo- 
lis. Upon a mound formed by the gnarled roots of the 
dwarfed and gnome-like oak, she sat down, and wept. 
In our earlier years, most of us may remember, that 
there was one day which made an epoch in life — the 
day that separated Childhood from Youth ; for that 
day seems not to come gradually, but to be a sudden 
crisis, an abrupt revelation. The buds of the heart open 
to close no more. Such a day was this in that girl's fate. 
But the day was not yet gone ! That ’morning, when she 
dressed for her enterprise of filial love, perhaps for the 
first time Sibyll Warner felt that she was fair — who shall 
say, whether some innocent, natural vanity had not 
blended with the deep, devoted earnestness, which saw no 
shame in the act by which the child could aid the father ? 
Perhaps she might have smiled to listen to old Madge’s 
praises of her winsome face — old Madge’s predictions 
that the face and the gittern would not lack admirers on 
the gay ground. Perhaps some indistinct, vague fore- 
thoughts of the Future to which the sex will deem itself 
to be born, might have caused the cheek — no, not to 
blush, but to take a rosier hue, and the pulse to beat 
quicker, she knew not why. At all events, to that ground 
went the young Sibyll, cheerful, and almost happy, in her 
inexperience of actual life, and sure, at least, that youth 
and innocence sufficed to protect from insult. And now 
she sat down under the leafless tree to weep ; and iu 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


63 


those bitter tears, childhood itself was laved from her 
soul for ever. 

“What ailest thou, maiden?” asked a deep voice ; 
and she felt a hand laid lightly on her shoulder. She 
looked up in terror and confusion, but it was no form or 
face to inspire alarm that met her eye. It was a cava- 
lier, holding by the rein a horse richly caparisoned, and 
though his dress was plainer and less exaggerated than 
that usually worn by men of rank, its materials were 
those which the sumptuary laws (constantly broken, in- 
deed, as such laws ever must be) confined to nobles. 
Though his surcoat was but of cloth, and the color dark 
and sober, it was woven in foreign looms — an unpatriotic 
luxury, above the degree of knight — and edged deep 
with the costliest sables. The hilt of the dagger, sus- 
pended round his breast, was but of ivory, curiously 
wrought, but the scabbard was sown with large pearls. 
For the rest, the stranger was of ordinary stature, well 
knit, and active rather than powerful, and of that age 
(about thirty-five) which may be called the second prime 
of man. His face was far less handsome than Marraa- 
duke Nevile’s, but infinitely more expressive, both of in- 
telligence and command, the features straight and sharp, 
the complexion clear and pale, and under the bright 
grey eyes a dark shade spoke either of dissipation or of 
thought. 

“ What ailest thou, maiden ? — weepest thou some 
faithless lover ? Tush I love renews itself in youth ; as 
flower succeeds flower in spring.” 


64 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

Sibyll made no reply, she rose and moved a few paces, 
then arrested her steps and looked around her. She 
had lost all clue to her way homeward, and she saw with 
horror, in the distance, the hateful timbrel-girls, followed 
by the rabble, and weaving their strange dances towards 
the spot. 

“ Dost thou fear me, child ? there is no cause,” said 
the stranger, following her. “Again, I say, ‘ What ailest 
thou ? ’ ” 

This time his voice was that of command, and the 
poor girl involuntarily obeyed it. She related her mis- 
fortunes, her persecution by the tymbesteres, her escape 
— thanks to the Nevile’s courtesy — her separation from 
her attendant, and her uncertainty as to the way she 
should pursue. 

The nobleman listened with interest : he was a man 
sated and wearied by pleasure and the world, and the 
evident innocence of Sibyll was a novelty to his ex- 
perience, while the contrast between her langua'ge and 
her dress moved his curiosity. “And,” said he, “thy 
protector left thee, his work half done; — fie on his 
chivalry I But I, donzell, wear the spurs of knighthood, 
and to succour the distressed is a duty my oath will not 
let me swerve from. I will guide thee home, for I know 
well all the purlieus of this evil den of London. Thou 
hast but to name the suburb in which thy father dwells.” 

Sibyll involuntarily raised her wimple, lifted her beauti- 
ful eyes to the stranger, in bewildered gratitude and sur- 
prise. Her childhood had passed in a court — her eye, 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


65 


accustomed to rank, at once perceived the high degree 
of the speaker ; the contrast between this unexpected 
and delicate gallantry, and the condescending tone and 
abrupt desertion of Marmaduke, affected her again to 
tears. 

“Ah, worshipful sir ! ” she said, falteringly, “ what can 
reward thee for this unlooked-for goodness ? ” 

“ One innocent smile, sweet virgin I — for such I’ll be 
sworn thou art.” 

He did not offer her bis hand, but hanging the gold- 
enamelled rein over his arm, walked by her side; and a 
few words sufficing for his guidance, led her across the 
ground, through the very midst of the throng. He felt 
none of the young shame, the ingenuous scruples of 
Marmaduke, at the gaze he encountered, thus com- 
panioned. But Sibyll noted that ever and anon bonnet 
and cap were raised as they passed along, and the re- 
spectful murmur of the vulgar, who had so lately jeered 
her anguish, taught her the immeasurable distance in 
men’s esteem, between poverty shielded but by virtue, 
and poverty protected by power. 

But suddenly a gaudy tinsel group broke through the 
crowd, and wheeling round their path, the foremost of 
them daringly approached the nobleman, and looking 
full into his disdainful face, exclaimed — “Tradest thou, 
too, for kisses ? Ha I ha ! — life is short — the witch is 
outwitched by thee ! But witchcraft and death go 
together, as, peradventure, thou raayest learn at the last, 
sleek wooer.” Then darting off, and heading her painted, 

K 


66 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS 


tawd'T throng, the timbrel-girl sprang into the crowd 
and vanished 

This incident produced no effect upon the strong and 
cynical intellect of the stranger. Without allusion to it, 
he continued to converse with his young companion, and 
artfully to draw out her own singular but energetic and 
gifted mind. He grew more than interested, he was 
both touched and surprised. His manner became yet 
more respectful, his voice more subdued and soft. 

On what hazards turns our fate I On that day — a 
little, and SibylFs pure but sensitive heart had, perhaps, 
been given to the young Nevile. He had defended and 
saved her ; he was fairer than the stranger, he was more 
of her own years, and nearer to her in station ; but in 
showing himself ashamed to be seen with her, he had 
galled her heart, and moved the bitter tears of her pride. 
What had the stranger done ? Nothing, but reconciled 
the wounded delicacy to itself ; and suddenly he became 
to her one ever to be remembered — wondered at — per- 
haps more. They reached an obscure suburb, and parted 
at the threshold of a large, gloomy, ruinous house, which 
Sibyll indicated as her father’s home. 

The girl lingered before the porch ; and the stranger 
gazed, with the passionless admiration which some fair 
object of art produces on one who has refined his taste, 
but who has survived enthusiasm, upon the downcast 
cheek that blushed beneath his gaze — “ Farewell ! ” he 
said ; and the girl looked up wistfully. He might, 
without vanity, have supposed tliat look to imply what 


67 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS^ 

the lip did not dare to say — “And shall we meet no 
more ? ” 

But he turned away, with formal though courteous 
salutation ; and as he remounted his steed, and rode 
slowly towards the interior of the city, he muttered to 

himself, with a melancholy smile upon his lips “Now 

might the grown infant make to himself a new toy ; but 
an innocent heart is a brittle thing, and one false vow 
can break it. Pretty maiden, I like thee well eno’ not 
to love thee. So, as my young Scotch minstrel sings 
and prays, 

“Christ keep these birdis bright in bowers, 

Sic peril lies in paramours ! *’ * 

We must now return to Marmaduke. On leaving 
Sibyll, and retracing his steps towards the more crowded 
quarter of the space, he was agreeably surprised by 
encountering Nicholas Alwyn, escorted in triumph by a 
legion of roaring apprentices from the victory he had 
just obtained over six competitors at the quarter-staif. 

When the cortege came up to Marmaduke, Nicholas 
halted, and fronting his attendants, said, with the same 
3old and formal stiffness that had characterized him from 

* A Scotch poet, in Lord Haile’s Collection, has the following 
lines in the very pretty poem called “ Peril in Paramours; ” — 

“Wherefore I pray, in termys short. 

Christ keep these birdis bright in bowers, 

Fra false lovers a»id their disport. 

Sic peril lies in paramours.” 


68 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

the beginning — I thank you, lads, for your kindness. 
It is your own triumph. All I cared for was to show 
that you London boys are able to keep up your credit 
in these days, when there’s little luck in a yard-measure, 
if the same hand cannot bend a bow, or handle cold 
steel. But the less we think of the strife when we are in 
the stall, the better for our pouches. And so I hope 
we shall hear no more about it, until I get a ware of my 
own, when the more of ye that like to talk of such 
matters the better ye will be welcome, — alw'ays provided 
ye be civil customers, — who pay on the nail, for as the 
saw saith, ‘ Ell and tell makes the crypt swell.’ For the 
rest, thanks are due to this brave gentleman, Marmaduke 
Nevile, who, though the son of a knight-banneret, who 
never furnished less to the battle-field than fifty men-at- 
arms, has condescended to take part and parcel in the 
sports of us peaceful London traders ; and if ever you 
can do him a kind turn — for turn and turn is fair play — 
why you will, I answer for it. And so one cheer for old 
London, and another for Marmaduke Nevile. Here 
goes ! Hurrah, my lads !” And with this pithy address 
Nicholas Alwyn took off his cap and gave the signal for 
the shouts, which, being duly performed, he bowed 
stiffly to his companions, who departed with a hearty 
laugh, and coming to the side of Nevile, the two walked 
on to a neighboring booth, where, under a rude awning, 
and over a flagon of clary, they were soon immersed in 
the confidential communications each had to give and 


receive. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


69 


CHAPTER III. 

The Trader and the Gentle; or, the Changing Generation. 

“No, my dear foster-brother,” said the Nevile, “1 
do not yet comprehend the choice you have made. You 
were reared and brought up with such careful book-lore, 
not only to read and to write — the which, save the 
mark! I hold to be labor eno^ — but chop Latin and 
logic and theology with St. Aristotle (is not that his hard 
name ?) into the bargain, and all because you had an 
uncle of high note in Holy Church. I cannot say I 
would be a shaveling myself ; but surely a monk with 
the hope of preferment, is a nobler calling to a lad of 
spirit and ambition than to stand out at a door and cry, 
‘Buy, buy’ — ‘What d’ye lack’ — to spend youth as a 
Flat-cap, and drone out manhood in measuring cloth, 
hammering metals, or weighing out spices?” 

“ Fair and softly. Master Marmaduke,” said Alwyn, 
“3"OU will understand me better anon. My uncle, the 
sub-prior, died — some say of austerities, others of ale — 
that matters not; he was a learned man and a cunning. 
‘Nephew Nicholas,’ said he on his death-bed, ‘think twice 
before you tie yourself up to the cloister ; it’s ill leaping 
now-a-days in a sackcloth bag. If a pious man be moved 
to the cowl by holy devotion, there is nothing to be said 


TO 


THE LAST OE THE BARONS. 


on the subject ; but if he take to the Church as a calling, 
and wish to march ahead like his fellows, these times 
show him a prettier path to distinction. The nobles begin 
to get the best things for themselves; and a learned 
monk, if he is the son of a yeoman, cannot hope, without 
a specialty of grace, to become abbot or bishop. The 
king, whoever he be, must be so drained by his wars, 
that he has little land or gold to bestow on his favor- 
ites ; but his gentry turn an eye to the temporalities of 
the Church, and the Church and the king wish to 
strengthen themselves by the gentry. This is not all; 
there are free opinions afloat. The house of Lancaster 
has lost ground, by its persecutions and burnings. Men 
dare not* openly resist, but they treasure up recollections 
of a fried grandfather, or a roasted cousin ; recollections 
which have done much damage to the Henries, and will 
shake Holy Church itself one of these days. The 
Lollards lie hid, but Lollardism will never die. There 
is a new class rising amain, where a little learning goes 
a great way, if mixed with spirit and sense. Thou likest 
broad pieces, and a creditable name — go to London and 
be a trader. London begins to decide who shall wear 
the crown, and the traders to decide what king London 
shall befriend. Wherefore, cut thy trace from the 
cloister, and take thy road to the shop.^ The next day 
my uncle gave up the ghost. — They had better clary 
than this at the convent, I must own. But every stone 
has its flaw ! ” 

'‘Yet,” said Marmaduke, “if you took distaste to the 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


n 


cowl, from reasons that I pretend not to judge of, but 
which seem to my poor head very bad ones, seeing that 
the Church is as mighty as ever, and King Edward is no 
friend to the Lollards, and that your uncle himself was 
at least a sub-prior ” 

“Had he been son to a baron, he had been a cardinal,’^ 
interrupted Nicholas, “ for his head was the longest that 
ever came out of the north country. But go on ; you 
would say my father was a sturdy yeoman, and I might 
have followed his calling ? ” 

“You hit the mark. Master Nicholas.” 

“ Hout, — man. I crave pardon of your rank. Master 
Nevile. But a yeoman is born a yeoman, and he dies a 
yeoman — I think it better to die Lord Mayor of London ; 
and so I craved my mother’s blessing and leave, and a 
part of the old hyde has been sold to pay for the first 
step to the red gown, which I need not say must be that 
of the Flat-cap. I have already taken my degrees, and 
no longer wear blue. I am headman to my master, and 
my master will be sheriff of London.” 

“ It is a pity,” said the Nevile, shaking his head ; “ you 
were ever a tall, brave lad, and would have made a very 
pretty soldier.” 

“ Thank you. Master Marmaduke, but I leave cut and 
thrust to the gentles. I have seen eno’ of the life of a 
retainer. He goes out on foot with his shield and his 
sword, or his bow and his quiver, while sir knight sits on 
horseback, armed from the crown to the toe, and the 
arrow slants off from rider and horse, as a stone from a 


T2 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

tree. If the retainer is not sliced and carved into mince- 
meat, he comes home to a heap of ashes, and a handful 
of acres, harried and rivelled into a common ; sir knight 
thanks him for his valor, but he does not build up his 
house ; sir knight gets a grant from the king, or an heiress 
for his son, and Hob Yeoman turns gisarme and bill into 
ploughshares. Tut, tut, there’s no liberty, no safety, no 
getting on, for a man who has no right to the gold spurs, 
but in the guild of his fellows ; and London is the place 
for a born Saxon, like Nicholas Alwyn.” 

As the young aspirant thus uttered the sentiments, 
which though others might not so plainly avow and 
shrewdly enforce them, tended towards that slow revolu- 
tion, which, under all the stormy events that the super- 
ficial record we call History alone deigns to enumerate, 
was working that great change in the thoughts and habits 
of the people — that impulsion of the provincial city- 
wards — that gradual formation of a class between knight 
and vassal — which became first constitutionally \\?,\h\Q 
and distinct in the reign of Henry YIT., Marmaduke 
Nevile, inly half-regretting and half-despising the reason- 
ings of his foster-brother, was playing with his dagger, 
and glancing at his silver arrow. 

“Yet you could still have eno’ of the tall yeoman and 
the stout retainer about you to try for this bauble, and 
to break half a dozen thick heads with your quarter-staff ! ” 

“True,” said Nicholas; “you must recollect we are 
only, as yet, between the skin and the selle — half-trader, 
half-retainer. The old leaven will out ‘ Eith to learn 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. T3 

the cat to the kirn/ — as they say in the north. But 
that’s not all ; a man, to get on, must win respect from 
those who are to jostle him hereafter, and it’s good policy 
to show those roystering youngsters that Nick Alwyn, 
stiff and steady though he be, has the old English metal 
in him. if it comes to a pinch ; it’s a lesson to yon lords 
too, save your quality, if they ever wish to ride rough- 
shod over our guilds and companies. But eno’ of me — 
Drawer, another stoup of the clary. Now, gentle sir, 
may I make bold to ask news of yourself? I saw, though 
I spake not before of it, that my Lord Montagu showed 
a cold face to his kinsman. I know something of these 
great men, though I be but a small one — a dog is no 
bad guide in the city he trots through.” 

“ My dear foster-brother,” said the Nevile; “you had 
ever more brains than myself, as is meet that you should 
have, since you lay by the steel casque, which, I take it, 
is meant as a substitute for us gentlemen and soldiers 
who have not so many brains to spare ; and I will 
willingly profit by your counsels. You must know,” he 
said, drawing nearer to the table, and his frank, hardy 
face assuming a more earnest expression, “ that though 
my father, Sir Guy, at the instigation of his chief, the 
Earl of Westmoreland, and of the Lord Nevile, bore 

arras, at the first, for King Henry ” 

“Hush! hush! for Henry of Windsor!” 

“ Henry of Windsor ! — so be it ! yet being connected, 
like the nobles I have spoken of, with the blood of War- 
wick and Salisbury, it was ever with doubt and misgiving, 
L — 7 


74 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

and rather in the hope of ultimate compromise between 
both parties (which the Duke of York’s moderation 
rendered probable), than of the extermination of either. 
But when, at the battle of York, Margaret of Anjou and 
her generals stained their victory by cruelties which could 
not fail to close the door on all conciliation ; when the 
infant son of the duke himself was murdered, though a 
prisoner, in cold blood ; when my father’s kinsman, the 
Earl of Salisbury, was beheaded without trial ; when the 
head of the brave and good duke, who had fallen in the 
field, was, against all knightly and king-like generosity, 
mockingly exposed, like that of a dishonored robber, on the 
gates of York, my father, shocked and revolted, with- 
drew at once from the army, and slacked not bit or spur 
till he found himself in his hall at Arsdale. His death, 
caused partly by his travail and vexation of spirit, 
together with his timely withdrawal from the enemy, 
preserved his name from the attainder passed on the 
Lords Westmoreland and Nevile ; and my eldest brother. 
Sir John, accepted the king’s proffer of pardon, took 
the oaths of allegiance to Edward, and lives safe, if 
obscure, in his father’s halls. Thou knowest, my friend, 
that a younger brother has but small honor at home. 
Peradventure, in calmer times, I might have bowed my 
pride to my calling, hunted my brother’s dogs, flown his 
hawks, rented his keeper’s lodge, and gone to my grave 
contented. But to a young man, who, from his child- 
hood, had heard the stirring talk of knights and captains, 
who had seen valor and fortune make the way to dis- 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


75 


tinction, and whose ears of late had been filled by the 
tales of wandering minstrels and dissours, witn all the 
gay wonders of Edward’s court, such a life soon grew 
distasteful. My father, on his death-bed (like tliy uncle, 
the sub-prior), encouraged me little to follow his own 
footsteps. ‘I see,’ said he, ‘that King Henry is too 
soft to rule his barons, and Margaret too fierce to con- 
ciliate the commons — the only hope of peace is in the 
settlement of the house of York. Wherefore let not thy 
father’s errors stand in the way of thy advancement ; ’ — 
and therewith he made his confessor — for he was no 
penman himself, the worthy old knight ! — indite a letter 
to his great kinsman, the Earl of Warwick, commending 
me to his protection. He signed his mark, and set his 
seal to this missive, which I now have at mine hostelrie, 
and died the same day. My brother judged me too 
young then to quit his roof, and condemned me to bear 
his humors till, at the age of twenty-three, I could bear 
no more! So, having sold him my scant share in the 
heritage, and turned, like thee, bad land into good nobles, 
— I joined a party of horse in their jqurney to London, 
and arrived yesterday at Master Sackbut’s hostelry, in 
Eastchepe. I went this morning to my Lord of Warwick, 
but he was gone to the king’s, and hearing of the merry- 
makings here, I came hither for kill-time. A chance 
word of my Lord of Montagu, whom St. Dunstan con- 
found, made me conceit that a feat of skill with the 
cloth-yard might not ill preface my letter to the great 
earl. But, pardie ! it seems I reckoned without my host, 


Tfi THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

and in seeking to make my fortunes too rashly, I have 
helped to mar them.” Wherewith he related the par- 
ticulars of his interview with Montagu. 

Nicholas Alwyn listened to him with friendly and 
thoughtful interest, and, when he had done, spoke thus : — 
“ The Earl of Warwick is a generous man, and, though 
hot, bears little malice, except against those whom he 
deems misthink or insult him ; he is proud of being looked 
up to as a protector, especially by those of his own kith 
and name. Your father’s letter will touch the right 
string, and you cannot do better than deliver it with a 
plain story., A young partisan like thee is not to be de- 
spised. Thou must trust to Lord Warwick to set mat- 
ters right with his brother : and now, before I say fur- 
ther, let me ask thee plainly, and without offence, Dost 
thou so love the house of York that no chance could ever 
make thee turn sword against it ? Answer as I ask — 
under thy breath ; those drawers are parlous spies ! ” 
And here, in justice to Marmaduke Nevile and to his 
betters, it is necessary to preface his reply by some brief 
remarks, to which^we must crave the earnest attention 
of the reader. What we call Patriotism, in the high 
and catholic acceptation of the word, was little if at all 
understood in days when passion, pride, and interest were 
motives little softened by reflection and education, and 
softened still less by the fusion of classes that character- 
ized the small states of old, and marks the civilization 
of a modern age. Though the right by descent of the 
house of York, if genealogy alone were consulted, was 


THE Last of the barons. 77 

indisputably prior to that of Lancaster, yet the long ex- 
ercise of power in the latter house, the genius of the 
Fourth Plenry, and the victories of the Fifth, would, no 
doubt, have completely superseded the obsolete claims 
of the Yorkists, had Henry YI. possessed any of the 
qualities necessary for the time. As it was, men had got 
puzzled by genealogies and ca vils ; the sanctity attached 
to the king’s name was v^eakened by his doubtful right 
to the throne, and the Wars of the rival Roses were at 
last (with two exceptions, presently to be noted) the mere 
contests of exasperated factions, in which public consid- 
erations were scarcely even made the blind to individual 
interest, prejudice, or passion. 

Thus instances of desertion, from the one to the other 
party, even by the highest nobles, and on the very eve of 
battle, had grown so common, that little if any disgrace 
was attached to them ; and any knight or captain held 
an affront to himself an amply sufficient cause for the 
transfer of his allegiance. It would be* obviously absurd 
to expect in any of the actors of that age the more ele- 
vated doctrines of party faith and public honor, which 
clearer notions of national morality, and the salutary 
exercise of a large general opinion, free from the passions 
of single individuals, have brought into practice in our 
more enlightened days. The individual feelings of the 
individual man, strong in himself, became his guide, and 
he was free in much from the regular and thoughtful vir- 
tues, as well as from the mean and plausible vices of those 
who act only ii: bodies and corporations. The two ex- 
7 * 


78 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


ceptions) to this idiosyncrasy of motive and conduct, were, 
first, in the general disposition of the rising middle class, 
especially in London, to connect great political interests 
with the more popular house of York. The commons in 
parliament had acted in opposition to Henry the Sixth, 
as the laws they wrung from him tended 4;o show, and it 
was a popular and trading party that came, as it were, 
into power under King Edward. It is true that Edward 
was sufficiently arbitrary in himself, but a popular party 
will stretch as much as its antagonists in favor of despot- 
ism — exercised on its enemies. And Edward did his best 
to consult the interests of commerce, though the preju- 
dices of the merchants interpreted those interests in a 
way opposite to that in which political economy now un- 
derstands them. The second exception to the mere hos- 
tilities of individual chiefs and feudal factions has, not 
less than the former, been too much overlooked by his- 
torians. But this was a still more powerful element in 
the success of the house of York. The hostility against 
the Roman church, and the tenets of the Lollards, were 
shared by an immense part of the population. In the 
previous century an ancient writer computes that one- 
half the population were Lollards ; and though the sect 
were diminished and silenced by fear, they still ceased 
not to exist, and their doctrines not only shook the Church 
under Henry YIII., but destroyed the throne by the 
strong arm of their children, the Puritans under Charles 
1. It was impossible that these men should not have felt 
the deepest resentment at the lierce and steadfast perse- 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


79 


cution they endured under the house of Lancaster ; ana 
without pausing to consider how far they would benefit 
under the dynasty of York, they had all those motives of 
revenge which are mistaken so often for the counsels of 
policy, to rally round any standard raised against their 
oppressors. These two great exceptions to merely self- 
ish policy, which it remains for the historian clearly and 
at length to enforce, these and these alone will always, 
to a sagacious observer, elevate the Wars of the Roses 
above those bloody contests for badges which we are, at 
first sight, tempted to regard them. But these deeper 
motives animated but very little the nobles and the 
knightly gentry,* and with them the governing principles 
were, as we have just said, interest, ambition, and the 
zeal for the honor and advancement of houses and chiefs. 

“ Truly,” said Marmaduke, after a short and rather 
embarrassed pause, “ I am little beholden as yet to the 
house of York. There, where I see a noble benefactor, 
or a brave and wise leader, shall I think my sword and 
heart may best proffer allegiance.” 

“Wisely said,” returned Alwyn, with a slight, but 
half-sarcastic smile ; “ I asked thee the question because 


* Amongst many instances of the self-seeking of the time, not 
the least striking is the subservience of John Mowbray, the great 
Duke of Norfolk, to his old political enemy, the Earl of Oxford, the 
moment the last comes into power, during the brief restoration of 
Henry VI. John Paston, whose family had been sufficiently har- 
assed by this great duke, says, with some glee, “ The Duke and 
Duchess (of Norfolk) sue to him (Lord Oxford) as humbly as ever I 
did to them.” — Paston Letters, cccii. 


80 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


— (draw closer) there are wise men in our city who think 
the lies between Warwick and the king less strong than 
a ship’s cable. And if thou attachest thyself to War- 
wick, he will be better pleased, it may be, with talk of 
devotion to himself than professions of exclusive loyalty 
to King Edward. He who has little silver in his pouch 
must have the more silk on his tongue. A word to a 
Westmoreland or a rorkshire-man is as good as a 
sermon to men not born so far north. One word more, 
and I have done. Thou art kind, and affable, and 
gentle, my dear foster-brother, but it will not do for thee 
to be seen again with the goldsmith’s headman. If thou 
wantest me, send for me at nightfall ; I shall be found 
at Master Heyford’s, in the Chepe. And if,” added 
Nicholas, with a prudent reminiscence, “thou succeedest 

at court, and canst recommend my master there is no 

better goldsmith — it may serve me w^hen I set up for 
myself, which I look to do shortly.” 

“But, to send for thee, my own foster-brother, at 
nightfall, as if I were ashamed!” 

“ Hout, Master Marmaduke, if thou wert not ashamed 
of me, I should be ashamed to be seen with a gay 
springal like thee. Why, they would say in the Chepe 
that Nick Alwyn was going to ruin. No, no. Birds of 
a feather must keep shy of those that moult other 
colors ; and so, my dear young master, this is my last 
shake of the hand. But hold. Dost thou know thy 
way back ? ” 

"Oh, yes — never fear!” answered Marniaduke , 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


81 


“ though I see not why so far, at least, we may not be 
companions.” 

“ No, better as it is ; after this day’s work they will 
gossip about both of us, and we shall meet many who 
know my long visage on the way back. God keep thee , 
avise me how thou prosperest.” 

So saying, Nicholas Alwyn walked off, too delicate to 
propose to pay his share of the reckoning with a superior. 
But when he had gone a few paces he turned back, and 
accosting the Nevile, as the latter was rebuckling his 
mantle, said — 

“ I have been thinking. Master Nevile, that these gold 
nobles, which it has been my luck to bear off, would be 
more useful in thy gipsire than mine. I have sure gains 
and small expenses — but a gentleman gains nothing, and 
his hand must be ever in his pouch — so ” 

“ Foster-brother ! ” said Marmaduke, haughtily, “ a 
gentleman never borrows — except of the Jews, and with 
due interest. Moreover, I too have my calling ; and as 
thy stall to thee, so to me my good sword. Saints keep 
thee I Be sure I will serve thee when I can.” 

“ The devil’s in these young strips of the herald’s 
tree,” muttered Alwyn, as he strode off ; ‘‘ as if it were 
dishonest to borrow a broad piece without cutting a 
throat for it I Howbeit, money is a prolific mother: 
and here is eno’ to buy me a gold chain against I am 
alderman of London. Hout, thus goes the world — the 
knight’s baubles become the alderman’s badges — so much 
the better.” 


82 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


CHAPTER lY. 

Ill fares the Country Mouse in the Traps of Town. 

We trust we shall not be deemed discourteous, either, 
on the one hand, to those who value themselves on their 
powers of reflection, or, on the other, to those who lay 
claim to what, in modern phrenological jargon, is called 
the Organ of Locality, when we venture to surmise that 
the two are rarely found in combination ; nay, that it 
seems to us a very evident truism, that in proportion to 
the general activity of the intellect upon subjects of 
pith and weight, the mind will be indifferent to those 
minute external objects by which a less contemplative 
understanding will note, and map out, and impress upon 
the memory, the chart of the road its owner has once 
taken. Master Marmaduke Nevile, a hardy and acute 
forester from childhood, possessed to perfection the 
useful faculty of looking well and closely before him as 
he walked the earth, and ordinarily, therefore, the path 
he had once taken, however intricate and obscure, he 
was tolerably sure to retrace with accuracy, even at no 
inconsiderable distance of time — the outward senses of 
men are usually thus alert and attentive in the savage 
or the semi-civilized state. He had not, therefore, over- 
valued his general acuteness in the note and memory of 
localities, when he boasted of his power to refind hia 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


83 


way to his hostelrie without the guidance of Alwyn. 
But it so happened that the events of this day, so 
memorable to him, withdrew his attention from external 
objects, to concentrate it within. And in marvelling 
and musing over the new course upon which his destiny 
had entered, he forgot to take heed of that which his 
feet should pursue ; so that, after wandering uncon- 
sciously onward for some time, he suddenly halted in 
perplexity and amaze to find himself entangled in a 
labyrinth of scattered suburbs, presenting features wholly 
different from the road that had conducted him to the 
archery-ground in the forenoon. The darkness of the 
night had set in, but it was relieved by a somewhat faint 
and mist-clad moon, and some few and scattered stars, 
over which rolled, fleetly, thick clouds, portending rain. 
No lamps at that time cheered the steps of the belated 
wanderer ; the houses were shut up, and their inmates, 
for the most part, already retired to rest, and the suburbs 
did not rejoice, as the city, in the round of the watch- 
man with his drowsy call to the inhabitants, “ Hang out 
your lights ! ” The passengers, who at first, in various 
small groups and parties, had enlivened the stranger’s 
way, seemed to him, unconscious as he was of the lapse 
of time, to have suddenly vanished from the thorough- 
fares ; and he found himself alone in places thoroughly 
unknown to him, waking to the displeasing recollection 
tiiat the approaches to the city were said to be beset by 
brawlers and ruffians of desperate characters, whom the 
cessation of the civil wars had flung loose upon the 


84 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

skirts of society, to maintain themselves by deeds of 
rapine and plunder. As might naturally be expected, 
most of these had belonged to the defeated party, who 
had no claim to the good offices or charity of those in 
power. And although some of the Neviles had sided 
with the Lancastrians, yet the badge worn by Marma- 
duke was considered a pledge of devotion to the reign- 
ing house, and added a new danger to those which beset 
his path. Conscious of this — for he now called to mind 
the admonitions of his host in parting from the hostelrie 
— he deemed it but discreet to draw the hood of his 
mantle over the silver ornament ; and while thus occu- 
pied, he heard not a step emerging from a lane at his 
rear, when suddenly a heavy hand was placed on his 
shoulder;. he started, turned, and before him stood a 
man, whose aspect and dress betokened little to lessen 
.he alarm of the uncourteous salutation. Marmaduke’s 
iagger was bare on the instant. 

“ And what wouldst thou with me ? ” he asked. 

“Thy purse and thy dagger 1’’ answered the stranger. 

“ Come and take them,” said the Nevile, unconscious 
that he uttered a reply famous in classic history, as he 
sprang backward a step or so, and threw himself into 
an attitude of defence. The stranger slowly raised a 
rude kind of mace, or rather club, with a ball of iron at 
the end, garnished with long spikes, as he replied, “ Art 
thou mad eno’ to fight for such trifles ? ” 

“ Art thou in the habit of meeting one Englishman 
who yields his goods, without a blow to another?” 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


85 


retorted Marraaduke. “Go to — thy club does not 
daunt me.” The stranger warily drew back a step, and 
applied a whistle to his mouth. The Nevile sprang at 
him, but the stranger warded off the thrust of the 
poniard with a light flourish of his heavy weapon ; and 
had not the youth drawn back on the instant, it had been 
good night and a long day to Marmaduke Nevile. Even 
as it was, his heart beat quick, as the whirl of the huge 
weapon sent the air like a strong wind against his face. 
Ere he had time to renew his attack, he was suddenly 
seized from behind, and found himself struggling in the 
arms of two men. From these he broke, and his dagger 
glanced harmless against the tough jerkin of his first 
assailant. The next moment his right arm fell to his 
side, useless and deeply gashed. A heavy blow on the 
head, — the moon, the stars reeled in his eyes — and then 
darkness ; — he knew no more. His assailants very de- 
liberately proceeded to rifle the inanimate body, when 
one of them, perceiving the silver badge, exclaimed, with 
an oath, “ One of the rampant Neviles ! This cock at 
least shall crow no more.’^ And la3dng the young man’s 
head across his lap, while he stretched back the throat 
with one hand, with the other he drew forth along sharp 
knife, like those used by the huntsmen in despatching the 
hart. Suddenly, and in the very moment when the blade 
was about to inflict the fatal gash, his hand was forcibly 
arrested, and a man, who had silently and unnoticed 
joined the ruffians, said in a stern whisper, “Rise and 
I .— 8 


86 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

depart from thy brotherhood for ever. We admit no 
murderer.” 

The ruffian looked up in bewilderment. ‘‘Robin — • 
captain — thou here!” he said falterinp^ly. 

“ I must needs be everywhere, I see, if I would keep 
such fellows as thou and these from the gallows. What 
is this? — a silver arrow — the young archer — Tim.” 

“A Nevile!” growded the would-be murderer. 

“And for that very reason his life should be safe. 
Knowest thou not that Richard of Warwick, the great 
Nevile, ever spares the commons. Begone 1 I say.” 
The captain’s low voice grew terrible as he uttered the 
last words. The savage rose, and without a word 
stalked away. 

“ Look you, my masters,” said Robin, turning to the 
rest, “soldiers must plunder a hostile country. While 
York is on the throne, England is a hostile country to 
us Lancastrians. Rob, then, rifle, if ye will. But he 
who takes life shall lose it. Ye know me!” The 
robbers looked down, silent and abashed. Robin bent 
a moment over the youth. “ He will live,” he muttered. 
“ So ! he already begins to awaken. One of these houses 
will give him shelter. Off, fellows, and take care of your 
necks ! ” 

When Marmaduke, a few minutes after this colloquy, 
began to revive, it was with a sensation of dizziness, 
pain, and extreme cold. He strove to lift himself from 
the ground, and at length succeeded. He was alone ; 
the place where he had lain was damp and red wdtb 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


87 


Btiffening blood. He tottered on for several paces, and 
perceived from a lattice, at a little distance, a light still 
burning. Now reeling — now falling, he still dragged on 
his limbs as the instinct attracted him to that sign of 
refuge. lie gained the doorway of a detached and 
gloomy house, and sank on the stone before it to cry 
aloud. But his voice soon sank into deep groans, and 
once more, as his efforts increased the rapid gush of the 
blood, became insensible. The man styled Robin, who 
had so opportunely saved his life, now approached from 
the shadow of a wall, beneath which he had watched 
Marmaduke’s movements. He neared the door of the 
house, and cried, in a sharp, clear voice — ‘‘ Open, for the 
love of Christ ! ” 

A head was now thrust from the lattice — the light 
vanished — a minute more, the door opened ; and Robin, 
as if satisfied, drew hastily back, and vanished — saying 
to himself, as he strode along, “ A young man^s life must 
needs be dear to him ; yet, had the lad been a lord, 
methinks I should have cared little to have saved for 
the people one tyrant more.” 

After a long interval, Marmaduke again recovered, 
and his eyes turned with pain from the glare of a light 
held to his face. 

“He wakes, father! — he will live!” cried a sweet 
voice. 

“Ay, he will live, child!” answered a deeper tone; 
and the young man muttered to himself, half audibly, as 
in a dream, “ Holy Mother be blessed ! it is sweet to live.” 


88 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

The room in which the sufferer lay, rather exhibited 
the remains of better fortunes than testified to the solid 
means of the present possessor. The ceiling was high 
and groined, and some tints of faded, but once gaudy 
painting, blazoned its compartments and hanging pen- 
dants. The walls had been rudely painted (for arras * 
then was rare, even among the wealthiest), but the 
colors were half obliterated by time and damp. The 
bedstead on which the wounded man reclined was 
curiously carved, with a figure of the Yirgin at the 
head, and adorned with draperies, in which were wrought 
huge figures from scriptural subjects, but in the dress of 
the date of Richard II. — Solomon in pointed upturned 
shoes, and Goliath, in the armor of a crusader, frowning 
grimly upon the sufferer. By the bedside stood a .per- 
sonage, who, in reality, was but little past the -middle 
age, but whose pale visage, intersected with deep furrows, 
whose long beard and hair, partially grey, gave him the 
appearance of advanced age : nevertheless there was 

* “Mr. Hallam (History of the Middle Ages, chap. ix. part 2) im- 
plies a doubt whether great houses were furnished with hangings 
so soon as the reign of Edwai d IV. But there is abundant eyidence 
to satisfy our learned historian upon that head. The Narrative of 
the “Lord of Grauthuse,” edited by Sir F. Madden*, specifies the 
lianging of cloth of gold in the apartments in which that lord was 
received by Edward IV. ; also the hangings of white silk and linen 
in the chamber appropriated to himself at Windsor. But long be- 
fore this period (to say nothing of the Bayeux Tapestry) — viz. in 
.the reign of Edward III. (in 1344), a writ was issued to inquire 
into the mystery of working tapestry; and in 1898, Mr. Britton 
observes that the celebrated arras hangings at Warwick Castle are 
mentioned. (See Britton’s Dictionary of Architecture and Archie- 
ology — art. Tapestry. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


80 


something peculiarly striking in the aspect of the man 
His forehead was singularly high and massive, but the 
back of the head was disproportionately small, as if the 
intellect too much preponderated over all the animal 
qualities for strength in character and success in life. 
The eyes were soft, dark, and brilliant, but dream-like 
and vague ; the features in youth must have been regular 
and beautiful, but their contour was now sharpened by 
the hollowness of the cheeks and temples. The form, in 
the upper part, was nobly shaped, sufficiently muscular, 
if not powerful, and with the long throat and falling 
shoulders, which always give something of grace and 
dignity to the carriage ; but it was prematurely bent, and 
the lower limbs were thin and weak, as is common with 
men who have sparely used them ; they seemed dispro- 
portioned to that broad chest, and still more to that mag- 
nificent and spacious brow. The dress of this personage 
corresponded with the aspect of his abode. The mate- 
rials were those worn by the gentry, but they were old, 
threadbare, and discolored with innumerable spots and 
stains. His hands were small and delicate, with large 
blue veins, that spoke of relaxed fibres ; but their natural 
whiteness was smudged with smoke-stains, and his beard 
— a masculine ornament utterly out of fashion among 
the younger race in King Edward’s reign, but when worn 
by the elder gentry, carefully trimmed and perfumed — 
was dishevelled into all the spiral and tangled curls, 
displayed in the sculptured head of some old Grecian 
sage or poet. 

8 * 


00 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

Oa the other side of the bed knelt a young girl of 
about sixteen, with a face exquisitely lovely in its delicacy 
and expression. She seemed about the middle stature, 
and her arms and neck, as displayed by the close-fitting 
vest, had already the smooth and rounded contour of 
dawning womanhood, while the face had still the soft- 
ness, innocence, and inexpressible bloom of the child. 
There was a strong likeness between her and her father 
(for such the relationship), despite the difference of sex 
and years — the same beautiful form of lip and brow — • 
the same rare color of the eyes, dark-blue, with black 
fringing lashes — and perhaps the common expression, 
at that moment, of gentle pity and benevolent anxiety 
contributed to render the resemblance stronger. 

“ Father, he sinks again I ” said the girl. 

“ Sibyll,” answered the man, putting his finger upon a 
line in a manuscript book that he held, “the authority 
saith, that a patient so contused should lose blood, and 
then the arm must be tightly bandaged. Verily, we lack 
the wherewithal.” 

“Not so, father!” said the girl, and blushing, she 
turned aside, and took off the partelet of lawn, upon 
which holiday finery her young eye perhaps that morning 
had turned with pleasure, and white as snow was the 
neck which was thus displayed — “this will suiGfice to 
bind his arm.” 

“ But the book,” said the father, in great perplexity 
— “the book telleth us not how the lancet should be 
applied. It is easy to say. ‘ Do this and do that ; ' but 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


91 


to do it once, it should have been done before. Tliis is 
not among my experiments.” 

Luckily, perhaps, for Marmaduke, at this moment there 
entered an old woman, the solitary servant of the house, 
whose life, in those warlike times, had made her pretty 
well acquainted with the simpler modes of dealing with 
a wounded arm and a broken head. She treated with 
great disdain the learned authority referred to by her 
master ; she bound the arm, plastered the head, and 
taking upon herself the responsibility to promise a rapid 
cure, insisted upon the retirement of father and child, 
and took her solitary watch beside the bed. 

“ If it had been any other mechanism than that of the 
vile human body I ” muttered the philosopher, as if apolo- 
gizing to himself; — and with that he recovered his self- 
complacency and looked round him proudly. 


CHAPTER V. 

Weal to the Idler — Woe to the Workman. 

As Providence tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, 
80 It possibly might conform the heads of that day to a 
thickness suitable for the blows and knocks to which they 
were variously subjected ; yet it was not without con- 
siderable effort, and much struggling, that Marmaduke’s 
senses recovered the shock received, less by his flesh- 
wound and the loss of blood, than a blow on the seat of 


92 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


reason, that might have despatched a passable ox of 
these degenerate days. Nature, to say nothing of 
Madge’s leechcraft, ultimately triumphed, and Marma- 
duke woke one morning in full possession of such under- 
standing as Nature had endowed him with. He was 
then alone, and it was with much simple surprise that he 
turned his large hazel eyes from corner to corner of the 
iiufainiliar room. He began to retrace and weave to- 
gether sundry disordered and vague reminiscences : he 
commenced with the commencement, and clearly satisfied 
himself that he had been grievously wounded and sorely 
bruised ; he then recalled the solitary light at the high 
lattice, and his memory found itself at the porch of the 
large, lonely, ruinous old house ; then all became a be- 
wildered and feverish dream. He caught at the vision 
of an old man with a long beard, whom he associated, 
displeasingly, with recollections of pain ; he glanced off 
to a fair young face, with eyes that looked tender pity 
whenever he writhed or groaned under the tortures that, 
no doubt, the old accursed carl had inflicted upon him. 
But even this face did not dwell with pleasure in his 
memory — it woke up confused and laboring associations 
of something weird and witch-like — of sorceresses and 

tyrabesteres — of wild warnings screeched in his ear 

of incantations and devilries, and doom. Impatient of 
these musings, he sought to leap from his bed, and was 
amazed that the leap subsided into a tottering crawl. 
He found an ewer and basin, and his ablutions refreshed 
and invigorated him. He searclied for his raiment, and 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


93 


discovered it all except the mantle, dagger, hat, and 
girdle ; and, while looking for these, his eye fell on an 
old tarnished steel mirror. He started as if he had seei 
his ghost; was it possible that his hardy face could have 
waned into that pale, and almost femininely delicate 
visage ? With the pride (call it not coxcombry) that 
then made the care of person the distinction of gentle 
birth, he strove to reduce into order the tangled locks 
of the long hair, of which a considerable portion above 
a part that seemed peculiarly sensitive to the touch, had 
been mercilessly clipped ; and as he had just completed 
this task, with little satisfaction and much inward chafing 
at the lack of all befitting essences and perfumes, the 
door gently opened, and the fair face he had dreamed 
of appeared at the aperture. 

The girl uttered a cry of astonishment and alarm at 
seeing the patient thus arrayed and convalescent, and 
would suddenly have retreated, but the Nevile advanced, 
and courteously taking her hand — 

“ Fair maiden,’^ said he, “ if, as I trow, I owe to thy 
cares my tending and cure — nay, it may be a life hitherto 
of little worth, save to myself — do not fly from my thanks. 
May our lady of Walsingham bless and reward thee I 

“ Sir,” answered Sibyll, gently withdrawing her hands 
from his clasp, “ our poor cares have been a slight return 
for thy generous protection to myself.” 

“ To thee I ah, forgive me, — how could I be so dull ? 
I remember thy face now ; and, perchance, I deserved 
the disaster I met with in leaving thee so discourteously 


04 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

My heart smote me for it as thy light footfall passed from 
my side.” 

A slight blush, succeeded by a thoughtful smile — the 
smile of one who recalls and caresses some not displeas- 
ing remembran(!e, passed over Sibyll’s charming counte- 
nance, as the sufferer said this with something of the 
grace of a well-born man, whose boyhood had been 
aught to serve God and the Ladies. 

There was a short pause before, she answered, looking 
down, “Nay, sir, I was sufficiently beholden to you; — 
and for the rest, all molestation was over. But I will 
now call your nurse — for it is to our servant, not us, that 
your thanks are due — to see to your state, and administer 
the proper medicaments.” 

“ Truly, fair damsel, it is not precisely medicaments 
that I hunger and thirst for ; and if your hospitality 
could spare me from the larder a manchet, or a corner 
of a pasty, and from the cellar a stoup of wine or a cup 
of ale, methinks it would tend more to restore me, than 
those potions which are so strange to my taste that they 
rather offend than tempt it ; and, pardie, it seemeth to 
my poor senses as if I had not broken bread for a week ! ” 

“ I am glad to hear you speak of such good cheer,” an- 
swered Sibyll ; “ wait but a moment or so, till I consult 
your physician.” ^ ' 

And, so saying, she closed the door, slowly descended 
the steps, and pursued her way into what seemed more 
like a vault than a habitable room, where she found the 
single servant of the household. Time, which makes 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


95 


changes so fantastic in the dress of the betrer classes, 
has a greater respect for the costume of the humbler ; 
and, though the garments were of a very coarse sort of 
serge, there was not so great a difference, in point of 
comfort and sufficiency, as might be supposed, between 
the dress of old Madge and that of some primitive ser- 
vant in the north during the last century. The old wo- 
man’s face was thin and pinched, but its sharp expression 
brightened into a smile as she caught sight, through the 
damps and darkness, of the gracious form of her young 
mistress. “Ah, Madge,” said Sibyll, with a sigh, “it is 
a sad thing to be poor I ” 

“ For such as thou. Mistress Sibyll, it is indeed. It 
does not matter for the like of us. But it goes to ray 
old heart when I see you shut up here, or worse, going 
out in that old courtpie and wiraple — you, a knight’s 
grandchild — you, who have played round a queen’s knees, 
and who might have been so well to do, an’ my master 
had thought a little more of the gear of this world. But 
patience is a good palfrey, and will can’y us a long day. 
And when the master has done what he looks for, why 
the king — sith we must so call the new man on the throne 
— will be sure to reward him ; but, sweetheart, tarry not 
here ; it’s an ill air for your young lips to drink in. What 
'brings you to old Madge?” 

“The stranger is recovered, and — ” 

“Ay, I warrant me, I have cured worse than he. He 
must have a spoonful of broth — I have not forgot it. You 
see 1 wanted no dinner myself — what is dinner to old 


96 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

folks ! — SO I e’en put it all in the pot for him. The 
broth will be brave and strong.” 

“ My poor Madge, God requite you for what you suffer 
for us ! But he has asked ” — here was another sigh and 
a downcast look that did not dare to face the consterna- 
tion of Madge, as she repeated, with a half-smile — “ he 
has asked — for meat, and' a stoup of wine, Madge I” 

“Eh, sirs ! And where is he to get them ? Not that 
it will be bad for the lad, either. Wine I There’s Mas- 
ter Sancroft, of* the Oak, will not trust us a penny, the 
seely hilding, and ” 

“ Oh, Madge, I forgot ! — we can still sell the gittern 
for something. Get on your wimple, Madge — quick — 
while I go for it.” 

“ Why, Mistress Sibyll, that’s your only pleasure, 
when you sit all alone, the long summer days.” 

“ It will be more pleasure to remember that it sup- 
plied the wants of my father’s guest,” said Sibyll ; and 
retracing the way up the stairs, she returned with the 
broken instrument, and despatched Madge with it, laden 
with instructions that the wine should be of the best. 
She then once more mounted the rugged steps, and halt- 
ing a moment at Marmaduke’s door, as she heard his 
feeble step walking impatiently to and fro, she ascended 
higher, where the flight, winding up a square dilapidated 
turret, became rougher, narrower, and darker, and opened 
the door of her father’s retreat. 

It was a room so bare of ornament and furniture that 
it seemed merely wrought out of the mingled rubble and 


THE LAiST or THE BARONS. 97 

rough stones which composed the walls of the mansion, 
and was lighted towards the street by a narrow slit, 
glazed, it is true, — which all the windows of the house 
were not, — but the sun scarcely pierced the dull panes 
and the deep walls in which they were sunk. The room 
contained a strong furnace, and a rude laboratory. 
There were several strange-looking mechanical con- 
trivances scattered about, several manuscripts upon some 
-oaken shelves, and a large pannier of wood and charcoal 
in the corner. In that poverty-stricken house, the money 
spent on fuel alone, in the height of summer, would have 
comfortably maintained the inmates ; but neither Sibyll 
mor Madge ever thought to murmur at this waste, dedi- 
cated to what had become the vital want of a man who 
drew air in a world of his own. This was the first thing 
to be provided for ; and Science was of more imperative 
necessity than even Hunger. 

Adam Warner was indeed a creature of remarkable 
genius — and genius, in an age where it is not appreciated, 
is the greatest curse the iron Fates can infiict on man. 
If not wholly without the fond fancies which led the 
wisdom of the darker ages to the philosopher's stone 
and the elixir, he had been deterred from the chase of a 
chimera by want of means to pursue it; for it required 
the resources or the patronage of a prince or noble to 
ootain the costly ingredients consumed in the alchemist^s 
crucible. In early life, therefore, and while yet in pos- 
session of a competence, derived from a line of dis- 
tinguished and knightly ancestors, Adam Warner had 

I. — 9 


G 


98 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

devoted himself to the surer, and less costly, study of 
the mathematics, which then had begun to attract the 
attention of the learned, but which was still looked upon 
by the vulgar as a branch of the black art. This pur- 
suit had opened to him the insight into discoveries 
equally useful and sublime. They necessitated a still 
more various knowledge ; and in an age when there was 
no division of labor, and rare and precarious communi- 
cation among students, it became necessary for each dis- 
coverer to acquire sufficient science for his own collateral 
experiments. 

In applying mathematics to the practical purposes, of 
life, in recognizing its mighty utilities to commerce and 
civilization, Adam Warner was driven to conjoin with 
it, not only an extensive knowledge of languages, but 
many of the rudest tasks of the mechanist’s art ; and 
chemistry was, in some of his researches, summoned to 
his aid. By degrees, the tyranny that a man’s genius 
exercises over his life, abstracted him fronoi all external 
objects. He had loved his wife tenderly, but his rapid 
waste of his fortune in the purchase of instruments and 
books, then enormously dear, and the neglect of all 
things not centered in the hope to be the benefactor of 
the world, had ruined her health and broken her heart. 
Happily Warner perceived not her decay till just before 
her death ; happily he never conceived its cause ; for 
her soul was wrapt in his. She revered, and loved, and 
never upbraided him. Her heart was the martyr to his 
mind. Had she foreseen the future destinies of her 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS 99 

daughter, it might have been otherwise. She could have 
remonstrated with the father, though not with the hus- 
band. But, fortunately, as it seemed to her, she (a 
Frenchwoman by birth) had passed her youth in the 
service of Margaret of Anjou, and that haughty queen, 
who was equally warm to friends and inexorable to ene- 
mies, had, on her attendant’s marriage, promised to ensure 
the fortunes of her offspring. Sibyll, at the age of nine, 
— between seven and eight years before the date the 
story enters on, and two years prior to the fatal field of 
Towton, which gave to Edward the throne of England, 
had been admitted among the young girls whom the 
custom of the day ranked amidst the attendants of the 
queen ; and in the interval that elapsed before Margaret 
was obliged to dismiss her to her home, her mother died. 
She died without foreseeing, the reverses that were to 
ensue, in the hope that her child, at least, was nobly 
provided for, and not without the belief (for there is so 
much faith in love !) that her husband’s researches, which, 
in his youth had won favor of the Protector-duke of 
Gloucester, the most enlightened prince of his time, 
would be crowned at last with the rewards and favors of 
his king. That precise period was, indeed, the fairest 
that had yet dawned upon the philosopher. Henry YI., 
slowly recovering from one of those attacks which passed 
for imbecility, had condescended to amuse himself with 
various conversations with Warner, urged to it first by 
representations of the unholy nature of the student’s 
pursuits ; and, having satisfied his mind of his learned 


100 


THE EAST OF THE BARONS. 


subject’s orthodoxy, the poor monarch had taken a sort 
of interest, not so much, perhaps, in the objects of 
Warner’s occupations, as in that complete absorption 
from actual life which characterized the subject, and 
gave him in. this, a melancholy resemblance to the king. 
While the House of Lancaster was on the throne, the 
wife felt that her husband’s pursuits would be respected, 
and his harmless life safe from the fierce prejudices of 
the people ; and the good queen would not suffer him to 
starve, when the last mark was expended in devices how 
to benefit his country : — and in these hopes the woman 
died I 

A year afterwards, all at court was in disorder — armed 
men supplied the service of young girls, and Sibyll, with 
a purse of broad pieces, soon converted into manuscripts, 
was sent back to her father’s desolate home. There had 
she grown a flower amidst ruins — with no companion 
of her own age, and left to bear, as her sweet and affec- 
tionate nature well did, the contrast between the luxuries 
of a court and the penury of a hearth, which, year after 
year, hunger and want came more and more sensibly to 
invade. 

Sibyll had been taught, even as a child, some accom- 
plishments little vouchsafed, then, to either sex — she 
could read and write; and Margaret had not so wholly 
lost, in the sterner north, all reminiscence of the accom- 
plishments that graced her father’s court, as to neglect 
the education of those brought up in her household. 
Much attention was given to music, for it sootlied the 


THE LAST OP THE BAR;ONS. lOJ 

dark hours of King Henry ; the blazoning of missals or 
the lives of saints, with the labors of the loom, were also 
among the resources of SibylPs girlhood, and by these 
last she had, from time to time, served to assist the main- 
tenance of the little family of which, child though she 
was, she became the actual head. But latterly — that is, 
for the last few weeks, even these sources failed her ; for 
as more peaceful times allowed her neighbors to interest 
themselves in the affairs of others,, the dark reports 
against Warner had revived. His name became a by- 
word of horror — the lonely light at the lattice burning 
till midnight — against all the early usages and habits of 
the day — the dark smoke of the furnace, constant in 
summer as in winter, scandalized the religion of the place 
far and near ; and finding, to their great dissatisfaction, 
that the king’s government and the Church interfered 
not for their protection, and unable themselves to volun- 
teer any charges against the recluse (for the cows in the 
neighborhood remained provokingly healthy), they came 
suddenly, and, as it were by one of those common sympa- 
thies which in all times the huge persecutor we call the 
PUBLIC manifests, when a victim is to be crushed, ^ — to the 
pious resolution of starving where they could not burn. 
Why buy the quaint deviltries of the wizard’s daughter ? 
i — no luck could come of it. A missal blazoned by such 
hands — an embroidery worked at such a loom, was like 
the Lord’s Prayer read backwards.. And one morning 
when poor Sibyll stole out as usual to vend a month’s 
9 * 


102 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

labor, she was driven from door to door with oaths and 
curses. 

Though SibylPs heart was gentle, she was not without 
a certain strength of mind. She had much of the patient 
devotion of her mother, much of the quiet fortitude of 
her father’s nature. If not comprehending to the full the 
loftiness of Warner’s pursuits, she still anticipated from 
them an ultimate success which reconciled her to all 
temporary sacrifices. The violent prejudices — the igno- 
rant cruelty, thus brought to bear against existence itself, 
filled her with sadness, it is true, but not unmixed with 
that contempt for her persecutors, which, even in the 
meekest tempers, takes the sting from despair. But 
hunger pressed. Her father was nearing the goal of his 
discoveries, and in a moment of that pride which in its 
very contempt for appearances braves them all, Sibyll 
had stolen out to the pastime-ground, — with what result 
has been seen already. Having thus accounted for the 
penury of the mansion, we return to its owner. 

Warner was contemplating with evident complacency 
and delight the model of a machine which had occupied 
him for many years, and which he imagined he was now 
rapidly bringing to perfection. His hands and face were 
grimed with the smoke of his forge, and hi? hair and 
beard, neglected as usual, looked parched and dried up, as 
if with the constant fever that burned within. 

“Yes — yes,” he muttered — “how they will bless me 
for this 1 What Roger Bacon only suggested I shall 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 103 

accomplish ! How it will change the face of the globe ! 
What wealth it will bestow on ages yet unborn 1” 

‘'My father,” said the gentle voice of Sibyll — "my 
poor father, thou hast not tasted bread to-day.” 

Warner turned, and his face relaxed into a tender ex- 
pression as he saw his daughter. 

" My child,” he said, pointing to his model, " the time 
comes when it will live / Patience — patience ! ” 

"And who would not have patience with thee, and/or 
thee, father ? ” said Sibyll, with enthusiasm speaking on 
every feature. — " What is the valor of knight and sol- 
dier — dull statues of steel — to thine ? Thou, with thy 
naked breast, confronting all dangers — sharper than the 

lance and glaive, and all ” 

"All to make England great I ” 

"Alas I what hath England merited from men like 
thee ! The people, more savage than their rulers, 
clamor for the stake, the gibbet, and the dungeon, for 
all who strive to make them wiser. Remember the death 
of Bolingbroke :* — a wizard, because, O father I — be- 
cause his pursuits were thine ! ” 

Adam, startled by this burst, looked at his daughter 
with more attention than he usually evinced to any living 
thing: "Child,” he said, at length, shaking his head in 

* A mathematician accused as an accomplice, in sorcery, of 
Eleanor Cobham, wife of Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, and 
hanged upon that charge. His contemporary (William Wyrcestre) 
highly extols his learning. 


104 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


gtave reproof, “ let me not say to thee, ‘ O thou of little 
faith ! ’ There were no heroes were there no martyrs ! ” 
Do not frown on me, father,’^ said Sibyll, sadly ; 
let the world frown — not thou ! Yes, thou art right. 
Thou must triumph at last.” And suddenly her whole 
countenance, changing into a soft and caressing endear- 
ment, she added — “ But now come, father. Thou hast 
labored well for this morning. We shall have a little 
feast for thee in a few minutes. And the stranger is re- 
covered, thanks to our leechcraft. He is impatient to 
see and thank thee.” 

“Well — well, I come, Sibyll,” said the student, with 
a regretful, lingering look at his model, and a sigh to be 
disturbed from its contemplation ; and he slowly quitted 
the room with Sibyll. 

“But not, dear sir and father, not thus — not quite 
thus — will you go to the stranger well-born like your- 
self. Oh, no I your Sibyll is proud, you know. — proud 
of her father.” So saying, she clung to him fondly, and 
drew him mechanically, for he had sunk into a reverie, 
and heeded her not, into an adjoining chamber in which 
he slept. The comforts even of the gentry, of men with 
the acres that Adam had sold, were then few and scanty. 
The nobles and the wealthy merchants, indeed, boasted 
many luxuries that excelled in gaud and pomp those of 
their equals now. But the class of the gentry who had 
very little money at command, were contented with hard- 
ships from which a' menial of this day would revolt 
What they could spend in luxury was usually consumed 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


105 


Hi dress and the table they were obliged to keep. These 
were the essentials of dignity. Of furniture there was a 
woeful stint. In many houses, even of knights, an edifice 
large enough to occupy a quadrangle,, was composed 
more of offices than chambers inhabited by the owners ;i 
rarely boasting more than three beds, which were be- 
queathed in wills as articles of great value. The reader 
must, therefore, not be surprised that Warner’s abode 
contained but. one bed, properly so called, and that was 
now devoted to Nevile. The couch which served the 
philosopher for bed was a wretched pallet, stretched on 
the floor, stuffed with straw, — with rough say or serge, 
and an old cloak for the coverings. His daughter’s, in 
a room below, was little better. The walls were bare ; 
the whole house boasted but one chair, which was in 
Marmaduke’s chamber — stools, or settles, of rude oak, 
elsewhere supplied their place. There was no chimney, 
except in Nevile’s room, and in that appropriated to the 
forge. 

To this chamber, then, resembling a dungeon in ap- 
pearance, Sibyll drew the student, and here, from an old 
worm-eaten chest, she carefully extracted a gown of 
brown velvet, which his father. Sir Armine, had be- 
queathed to him by will, faded, it is true, but still such 
as the low-born wore not,* trimmed with fur, and 
clasped with a brooch of gold. And then she held the 
ewer and basin to him, while, with the docility of a child, 

* By the sumptuary laws, only a knight was entitled to wear 
felvet. 


106 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


he washed the smoke-soil from his hands and face. It 
was touching to see in this, as in all else, the reverse of 
their natural position — the child tending and heeding, 
and protecting, as it were, the father; and that not from 
his deficiency, but his greatness ; not because he was 
below the vulgar intelligences of life, but above them 
And certainly, when, his patriarchal hair and beard 
smoothed into order, and his velvet gown flowing in 
majestic folds around a figure tall and commanding, 
Sibyll followed her father into Marmaduke^s chamber, — 
she might well have been proud of his appearance. And 
she felt the innocent vanity of her sex and age, in 
noticing the half-start of surprise with which Marmaduke 
regarded his host, and the tone of respect in which he 
proffered him his salutations and thanks. Even his 
manner altered to Sibyll ; it grew less frank and affable, 
more courtly and reserved ; and when Madge came to 
announce that the refection was served, it was with a 
blush of shame, perhaps, at his treatment of the poor 
gittern-player on the pastime-ground, that the Nevile 
extended his left hand, for his right was still not at his 
command, to lead the damsel to the hall. 

This room, which was divided from the entrance by 
a screen, and, except a small closet that adjoined it, was 
the only sitting-room, in a day when, as now on the Con- 
tinent, no shame was attached to receiving visitors in 
sleeping apartments, was long and low ; an old, and very 
narrow table, that might have feasted thirty persons, 
stretched across a dais raised upon a stone floor ; there 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


107 


was uo rere-dosse, or fire-place, which does not seem at 
that day to have been an absolute necessity in the houses 
of the metropolis and its suburbs ; its-place being supplied 
by a movable brazier. Three oak stools were placed in 
state at the board, and to one of these Marmaduke, in a 
silence unusual to him, conducted the fair Sibyll. 

“ You will forgive our lack of provisions, said War- 
ner, relapsing into the courteous fashions of his elder 
days, which the unwonted spectacle of a cold capon, a 
pasty, and a flask of wine, brought to his mind by a train 
of ideas that actively glided by the intervening circum- 
stances which ought to have filled him with astonishment 
at the sight, “ for my Sibyll is but a young housewife, 
and I am a simple scholar, of few wants.” 

“Verily,” answered Marmaduke, finding his tongue 
as he attacked the pasty, “ I see nothing that the most 
dainty need complain of ; fair Mistress Sibyll, your dainty 
lips will not, I trow, refuse me the waisall.* To you 
also, worshipful sir ! Gramercy ! it seems that there is 
nothing which better stirs a man’s appetite than a sick 
bed. And, speaking thereof, deign to inform me, kind 
sir, how long I have been indebted to your hospitality. 
Of a surety, this pasty hath an excellent flavor, and if not 
venison, is something better. But to return, it mazes 
me much to think what time hath passed since my en- 
counter with the robbers.” 


* i. e. Waissail or wassal ; the spelling of the time is adopted in 
the text. 


108 : 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


“ Tltey were robbers, then, who so cruelly assailed 
thee ? ’’ observed Sibyll. 

Have I not said so — surely, who else ? and, as I was 
remarking to your worshipful father, whether this mis- 
chance happened hours, days, months, or years ago, be- 
shrew me if I can venture the smallest guess.” 

Master Warner smiled, and observing that some reply 
was expected from him, said, “ Why, indeed, young sir,. 
I fear I am almost as oblivious as yourself. It was not 
yesterday that you arrived, nor the day before, nor — 
Sibyll, my child, how long is it since this gentleman hath 
been our guest?” 

“ This is the fifth day,” answered Sibyll. 

“ So long ! and I like a senseless log by the wayside, 
when others are pushing on bit and spur, to the great 
road. I pray you, sir, tell me the news of the morning. 
The Lord Warwick is still in London — the Court still 
at the Tower ? ” 

Poor Adam, whose heart was with his model, and 
who had now satisfied his temperate wants, looked some- 
what bewildered and perplexed by this question : “ The 
king, save his honored head,” said he, inclining his own, 
“ is, I fear me, always at the Tower since his unhappy 
detention, but he minds it not, sir — he heeds it not j his 
soul is not on this side Paradise.” 

Sibyll uttered a faint exclamation of fear at this 
dangerous indiscretion of her father’s absence of mind ; 
and drawing closer to Nevile, she put her hand with 
touching confidence on his arm, and whispered — You 


THE liAST OP THE BARONS. 09 

rwill not repeat this, -sir I my father lives only in his 
studies, and he has mever known but one king I 

Marmaduke turned his bold face to the maid, and 
pointed to the salt-cellar, as he answered in the same 
tone — “ Does the brave man betray his host ? ” 

There was a moment’s silence. Marmaduke rose. “ I 
fear,” said he, “-that I must now leave you ; and, while 
'it is yet broad noon, I must indeed be blind if I again 
*miss ray way.” 

This speech suddenly recalled Adam from his medita- 
tions, for whenever his kindly and simple benevolence 
‘was touched, even his mathematics and his model were 
forgotten. “No, young sir,” said he, “ you must not 
-quit us yet; your danger is not over. Exercise may 
bring fever. Celsus recommends quiet. You must con- 
sent to tarry with us a day -or two more.” 

“ Canyou tell me,” said the Nevile,' hesitatingly, “what 
distance it is to the Temple-gate, or the nearest wharf on 
the river?” 

“ Two miles, at the least,” answered Sibyll. 

“Two miles I — and now I mind me, I have not the 
accoutrements that beseem 'me. Those hildings have 
'Stolen .my mantle'''(which I perceive, by the way, is but a 
rustic garment, now laid aside for the super-tunic), and 
.my hat 'and dague, nor have they left even a half-groat 
•to supply itheir place. Yerily, therefore, since ye permit 
me to burden your hospitality longer, I will not say ye 
nay, provided you, worshipful sir, will suffer one of your 
Deople to step to the house of one Master Ifeyford, gold- 
l.— 


110 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


smith, in the Chepe, and crave one Nicholas Alwyn, his 
Freedman, to visit uie. I can commission him, touching 
my goods left at mine hostelrie, and learn some other 
things which it behoves me to know.” 

“ Assuredly. Sibyll, tell Simon or Jonas to put him- 
self under our guest^s order.” 

Simon or Jonas ! The poor Adam absolutely forgot 
that Simon and Jonas had quitted the house these six 
years I How could he look on the capon, the wine, and 
the velvet gown trimmed with fur, and not fancy himself 
back in the heyday of his wealth ? 

Sibyll half smiled and half sighed, as she withdrew to 
consult with her sole counsellor, Madge, how the guest’s 
orders were to be obeyed, and how, alas I the board was 
to be replenished for the evening meal. But in both these 
troubles she was more fortunate than she anticipated. 
Madge had sold the broken gittern, for musical instru- 
ments were then, comparatively speaking, dear (and this 
had been a queen’s gift), for sufficient to provide decently 
for some days, and, elated herself with the prospect of so 
much good cheer, she readily consented to be the mes- 
senger to Nicholas Alwyn. 

When, with a light step and a lighter heart, Sibyll 
tripped back to the hall, she was scarcely surprised to 
find the guest alone. Her father, after her departure, 
had begun to evince much restless perturbation. He 
answered Marmaduke’s queries but by abstracted and 
desultory monosyllables, and seeing his guest length 
engaged in contemplating some old pieces of annor hun^ 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


Ill 


upon the walls, he stole stealthily and furtively away, and 
halted not till once more before his beloved model. 

Unaware of his departure, Marraaduke, whose back 
was turned to him, was, as he fondly imagined, enlighten- 
ing his host with much soldier-like learning as to the old 
helmets and weapons that graced the hall. “ Certes, my 
host,” said he, musingly, “ that sort of casque, which has 
not, I opine, been worn this century, had its merits ; the 
vizor is less open to the arrows. But, as for these chain 
suits, they suited only — I venture, with due deference, to 
declare — the Wars of the Crusades, where the enemy 
fought chiefly with dart and scymetar. They would be 
but a sorry defence against the mace and battle-axe ; 
nevertheless, they were light for man and horse, and, in 
some service, especially against foo.t, might be revived 
with advantage. Think you not so ? ” 

He turned, and saw the arch face of Sibyll. 

“ I crave pardon for my blindness, gentle damsel,” said 
he, in some confusion, “but your father was here anon.” 

“His mornings are so devoted to labor,” answered 
Sibyll, “ that he entreats you to pardon his discourtesy. 
Meanwhile, if you would wish to breathe the air, we have 
a small garden in the rear;” and so saying, she led the 
way into the small withdrawing-room, or rather closet, 
which was her own favorite chamber, and which com- 
municated, by another door, with a broad, neglected 
grass-plot, surrounded by high walls, having a raised 
terrace in front, divided by a low stone Grothic palisade 
from the green sward. 


112 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

On the palisade sat droopingly, and half asleep, a 
solitary peacock j but when Sibyll and the stranger ap- 
peared at the door, he woke up suddenly, descended 
from his height, and, with a vanity not wholly unlike his 
young mistress’s wish to make the best possible display 
in the eyes of a guest— spread his plumes broadly in the 
sun. Sibyll threw him some bread, which she had taken 
from the table for that purpose ; but the proud bird, 
however hungry, disdained to eat, till he had thoroughly 
satisfied himself that his glories had been sufficiently 
observed. 

“Poor proud one,” said Sibyll, half to herself, “thy 
plumage lasts with thee through all changes.” 

“ Like the name of a brave knight,” said Marmaduke, 
who overheard her. 

“Thou thinkest of the career of arms.” 

“Surely — I am a Nevilel” 

“ Is there no fame to be won but that of a warrior ? ” 

“ Not that I weet of, or heed for. Mistress Sibyll.” 

“ Thinkest thou it were nothing to be a minstrel, who 
gave delight? — a scholar, who dispelled darkness?” 

“ For the scholar ? certes, I respect holy Mother 
Church, which they tell me alone produces that kind of 
wonder with full safety to the soul, and that only in the 
higher prelates and dignitaries. For the minstrel, I love 
him — I would fight for him — I would give him at need 
the last penny in my gipsire. But it is better to do deeds 
than to sing them.” 

Sibyll smiled, and the smile perplexed and half dis- 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 113 

pleased the young adventurer. But the fire of the young 
man had its charm. 

By degrees, as they walked to and fro the neglected 
terrace, their talk flowed free and familiar ; for Marma- 
duke, like most young men, full of himself, was joyous 
with the happy egotism of a frank and careless nature. 
He told his young confidante of a day his birth, his his- 
tory, his hopes, and fears ; and in return he learned, in 
answer to the questions he addressed to her, so much, 
at least, of her past and present life — as the reverses of 
her father, occasioned by costly studies — her own brief 
sojourn at the court of Margaret — and the solitude, if 
not the struggles, in which her youth was consumed. It 
would have been a sweet and grateful sight to some 
kindly bystander to hear these pleasant communications 
between two young persons so unfriended, and to imagine 
that hearts thus opened to each other might unite in one. 
But Sibyll, though she listened to him with interest, and 
found a certain sympathy in his aspirations, was ever and 
anon secretly comparing him to one, the charm of whose 
voice still lingered in her ears ; and her intellect, culti- 
vated and acute, detected in Marmaduke deficient edu- 
cation — and that limited experience which is the folly 
and the happiness of the young. 

On the other hand, whatever admiration Nevile 
might conceive, was strangely mixed with surprise, and, 
it might almost be said, with fear. This girl, with her 
wise converse and her child’s face, was a character so 
thoroughly new to him ! Her language was superior to 
10 * H 


114 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

what he had ever heard, the words more choice, the 
current niore flowing — was that to be attributed to her 
court-training, or her learned parentage ? 

“Your father, fair mistress,^’ said he, rousing himself 
in one of the pauses of their conversation — “your father, 
then, is a mighty scholar, and I suppose knows Latin 
like English ? ’’ 

“ Why, a hedge-priest pretends to know Latin,” said 
Sibyll, smiling ; my father is one of the six men living 
who have learned the Greek and the Hebrew.” 

“Gramercyl” cried Marmaduke, crossing himself. 
“ That is awsome indeed I He has taught you his lere 
in the tongues?” 

“ Nay, I know but my own and the French ; my mother 
was a native of France.” 

“ The Holy Mother be praised ! ” said Marmaduke, 
breathing more freely; “for French I have heard ray 
father and uncle say is a language fit for gentles and 
knights, specially those who come, like the Neviles, from 
Norman stock. This Margaret of Anjou — didst thou 
love her well, Mistress Sibyll ? ” 

“ Nay,” answered Sibyll, “ Margaret commanded awe, 
but she scarcely permitted love from an inferior ; and 
though gracious and well-governed when she so pleased, 
it was but to those whom she wished to win. She cared 
not for the heart, if the hand or the brain could not 
assist her. But, poor queen, who could blame her for 
this ? — her nature was turned from its milk ; and, when, 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 116 

more lately, I have hea;^d how many she trusted most 
have turned against her, I rebuke myself that ” 

“ Thou wert not by her side I ” added the Nevile, ob- 
serving her pause, and with the generous thought of a 
gentleman and a soldier. 

“ Nay, I meant not that so expressly. Master Nevile, 
but rather that I had ever murmured at her haste and 
shrewdness of mood. By her side, said you ? — alas ! I 
have a nearer duty at home ; my father is all in this 
world to me I Thou knowest not. Master Nevile, how 
it flatters the weak to think there is some one they can 
protect. But eno’ of myself. Thou wilt go to the stout 
earl, thou wilt pass to the court, thou wilt win the gold 
spurs, and thou wilt fight with the strong hand, and 
leave others to cozen with the keen head.” 

“ She is telling my fortune I ” muttered Marmaduke, 
crossing himself again. “The gold spurs — I thank 
thee, Mistress Sibyll. — Will it be on the battle-field that 
I shall be knighted, and by whose hand ? ” 

Sibyll glanced her bright eye at the questioner, and 
seeing his wistful face, laughed outright. 

“What thinkest thou. Master Nevile, I can read thee 
all riddles without my sieve and my shears?” 

“ They are essentials, then. Mistress Sibyll ? ” said the 
Nevile, with blunt simplicity. “I thought ye more 
learned damozels might tell by the palm, or the — why 
dost thou laugh at me ? ” 

“Nay,” answered Sibyll, composing herself. “It is 
my right to be angered. Sith thou wouldst take me to 


116 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


be a witch, all that I can tell thee of thy future (she 
added touchingly) is from that which I have seen of thy 
past. Thou hast a brave heart, and a gentle ; thou hast 
a frank tongue, and a courteous ; and these qualities 
make men honored and loved — except they have the 
gifts which turn all into gall, and bring oppression for 
honor, and hate for love.” 

*‘And those gifts, gentle Sibyll?” 

‘*Are my father’s,” answered the girl, with another 
and a sadder change in her expressive countenance. 
And the conversation flagged till Marmaduke, feeling 
more weakened by his loss of blood than he had con- 
ceived it possible, retired to his chamber to repose him- 
self. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Master Marmaduke Nevile fears for the Spiritual Weal of his Host 
and Hostess. 

Before the hour of supper, which was served at six 
o’clock, Nicholas Alwyn arrived at the house indicated 
to him by Madge. Marmaduke, after a sound sleep, 
which was little flattering to Sibyll’s attractions, had 
descended to the hall in search of the maiden and his 
host, and finding no one, had sauntered in extreme 
weariness and impatience into the little withdrawing 
tloset, where, as it was now dusk, burned a single candle 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. IIT 

in a melancholy and rustic sconce ; standing by the door 
that opened on the garden, he amused himself with 
watching the peacock, when his friend, following Madge 
into the chamber, tapped him on the shoulder. 

“Well, Master Nevile. Hal by St. Thomas, what 
has chanced to thee ? Thine arm swathed up, thy locks 
shorn, thy face blanched 1 My honored foster-brother, 
thy Westmoreland blood seems over-hot for Cock- 
aigne I ” 

“ If so, there are plenty in this city of cut-throats, to 
let out the surplusage,” returned Marmaduke ; and he 
briefly related his adventure to Nicholas. 

When he had done, the kind trader reproached him- 
self for having suffered Marmaduke to find his way 
alone. “ The suburbs abound with these miscreants,” 
said he; “and there is more danger in a night- walk near 
London, than in the loneliest glens of green Sherwood 
— more shame to the city I An’ I be Lord Mayor, one of 
these days, I will look to it better. But our civil wars 
make men hold human life very cheap, and there’s 
parlous little care from the great, of the blood and limbs 
pf the wayfarers. But war makes thieves — and peace 
hangs them I Only wait till I manage affairs I ” 

“ Many thanks to thee, Nicholas,” returned the 
Nevile; “but foul befall me if ever I seek protection 
from sheriff or mayor I A man who cannot keep his 
own life with his own right hand, merits well to hap- 
lose it ; and I, for one, shall think ill of the day when an 
I’Jnglishmaii looks more to the laws than his good arm 


118 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

for his safety ; but, letting this pass, I beseech thee to 
adrise me if my Lord Warwick be still in the city ? ” 

“Yes, marry, I know that by the hostelries, which 
swarm with his badges, and the oxen, that go in scores 
to the shambles ! It is a shame to the Estate to see one 
subject so great, and it bodes no good to our peace. 
The earl is preparing the most magnificent embassage 
that ever crossed the salt seas — I would it were not to 
the French, for our interests lie contrary ; but thou hast 
some days yet to rest here and grow stout, for I would 
not have thee present thyself with a visage of chalk to a 
man who values his kind mainly by their thews and their 
sinews. Moreover, thou shouldst send for the tailor, and 
get thee trimmed to the mark. It would be a long step 
in thy path to promotion, an’ the earl would take thee in 
his train ; and the gaudier thy plumes, why the better 
chance for thy flight. Wherefore, since thou sayest they 
are thus friendly to thee under this roof, bide yet awhile 
peacefully — I will send thee the mercer, and the clothier, 
and the tailor, to divert thy impatience. And, as these 
fellows are greedy, my gentle and dear Master Nevile, 
may I ask, without offence, how thou art provided ? ” 

“Nay, nay, I have moneys at the hostelrie, an’ thou 
wilt send me my mails. For the rest, I like thy advice, 
and will take it.” 

“ Good I ” answered Nicholas. “ Hem ! thou seemest 
to liave got into a poor house — a decayed gentleman, I 
wot, by the slovenly ruin I ” 

“I would that were the worst,” replied Marmaduke, 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. IIS 

solemnly, and under his breath, and therewith he re- 
peated to Nicholas the adventure on the pastime-ground, 
the warnings of the timbrel-girls, and the “ awsome ” 
learning and strange pursuits of his host. As for Sibyll, 
he was evidently inclined to attribute to glamour the 
reluctant admiration with which she had inspired him. 
“For,” said he, “though I deny not that the maid is 
passing fair — there be many with rosier cheeks, and 
taller by this hand I ” 

Nicholas listened, at first, with the peculiar expression 
of shrewd sarcasm which mainly characterized his in- 
telligent face, but his attention grew more earnest before 
Marraaduke had concluded. 

“In regard to the maiden,” said he, smiling and 
shaking his head, “ it is not always the handsomest that 
win us the most — while fair Meg went a maying, black 
Mog got to church — and I give thee more reasonable 
warning than thy timbrel-girls, when, in spite of thy cold 
language, I bid thee take care of thyself against her at- 
tractions ; for, verily, my dear foster-brother, thou must 
mend, and not mar thy fortune, by thy love matters ; and 
dieep thy heart whole for some fair one with marks in her 
gipsire, whom the earl may find out for thee. Love 
and raw pease are two ill things in the porridge-pot. 
But, the father I — I mind me now that I have heard of 
his name, through my friend Master Caxton, the mercer, 
as one of prodigious skill in the methematics. I should 
.ike much to see him, and, with thy leave (an’ he ask me), 
will tarry to supper. But what are these ! ” — and 


120 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

Nicholas took up one of the illuminated MSS. which 
Sibyll had prepared for sale. “ By the blood ! this is 
couthly and marvellously blazoned.” 

The book was still in his hand when Sibyll entered. 
Nicholas stared at her, as he bowed with a stiff and un- 
graceful embarrassment, which often at first did injustice 
to his bold, clear intellect, and his perfect self-possession 
in matters of trade or importance. 

“ The first woman face,” muttered Nicholas to him- 
self, “ I ever saw that had the sense of a man’s. And by 
the rood, what a smile ! ” 

“ Is this thy friend, Master Nevile ? ” said Sibyll, with 
a glance at the goldsmith. “ He is welcome. But is it 
fair and courteous. Master Nelwyn — ” 

“Alwyn, an’ it please you, fair mistress. A humble 
name, but good Saxon — which, I take it, Nelwyn is 
not,” interrupted Nicholas. 

“ Master Alwyn, forgive me ; but can I forgive thee 
so readily for thy espial of my handiwork, without license 
or leave ? ” 

“Yours, comely mistress I” exclaimed Nicholas, open- 
ing his eyes, and unheeding the gay rebuke— “ why, this 
is a master-hand. My Lord Scales — nay, the Earl of 
Worcester himself, hath scarce a finer in all his amass- 
ment.” 

“Well, I forgive thy fault for thy flattery ; and I pray 
thee, in my father’s name, to stay and sup with thy 
friend.” 

Nicholas bowed low, and still riveted his eyes on the 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


121 


book with such open admiration, that Marmaduke 
thought it right to excuse his abstraction ; but there was 
something in that admiration which raised the spirits of 
Sibyll, which gave her hope when hope was well-nigh 
gone, and she became so vivacious, so debonnair, so 
charming, in the flow of a gaiety natural to her, and 
very uncommon with English maidens, but which she 
took partly, perhaps, from her French blood, and partly 
from the example of girls and maidens of French extrac- 
tion in Margaret^s court, that Nicholas Alwyn thought 
he had never seen any one so irresistible. Madge having 
now served the evening meal, put in her head to announce 
it, and Sibyll withdrew to summon her father. 

“I trust he will not tarry too long, for I am sharp 
set I ” muttered Marmaduke. “ What thinkest thou of 
the damozel?” 

“Marry,” answered Alwyn, thoughtfully, “ I pity and 
marvel at her. There is eno^ in her to furnish forth 
twenty court beauties. But what good can so much wit 
and cunning do to an honest maiden ? ” 

“ That is exactly my own thought,” said Marmaduke ; 
-and both the young men sank into silence, till Sibyll re- 
entered with her father. 

To the surprise of Marmaduke, Nicholas Alwyn, 
whose less gallant manner he was inclined to ridicule, 
soon contrived to rouse their host from his lethargy, and 
to absorb all the notice of Sibyll ; and the surprise was 
increased, when he saw that his friend appeared not un- 


122 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


familiar with those abstruse and mystical sciences in 
which Adam was engaged. 

“What!” said Adam. “You know, then, my deft 
and worthy friend. Master Caxton ! He hath seen 
notable things abroad ” 

“ Which, he more than hints,” said Nicholas, “ will 
lower the value of those manuscripts this fair damozel 
has so couthly enriched : and that he hopes, ere long, to 
show the Englishers how to make fifty, a hundred, — nay, 
even five hundred exemplars of the choicest book, in a 
much shorter time than a scribe would take in writing 
out two or three score pages in a single copy.” 

“Yerily,” said Marmaduke, with a smile of compas- 
sion, “ the poor man must be somewhat demented ; for 
I opine that the value of such curiosities must be in their 
rarity — and who would care for a book, if five hundred 
others had precisely the same ? — allowing always, good 
Nicholas, for thy friend’s vaunting and over-crowing. 
Five hundred ! By’r lady, there would be scarcely five 
hundred fools in merry England to waste good nobles 
on spoilt rags, specially while bows and mail are so 
dear.” 

“Young gentleman,” said Adam, rebukingly, “ me- 
seemeth that thou wrongest our age and country, to the 
which, if we have but peace and freedom, I trust the 
birth of great discoveries is ordained. * Certes, Master 
Alwyii,” he added, turning to the goldsmith, “this 
achievement may be readily performed, and hath existed, 
I heard an ingenious Fleming say, years ago, for many 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 123 

ages amongst a strange people * known to the Yene- 
tians ! But dost thou think there is much appetite 
among those who govern the state to lend encourage- 
ment to such matters?” 

“Mj master serves my Lord Hastings, the King’s 
chamberlain, and my lord has often been pleased to_ con- 
verse with me, so that I venture to say, from my know- 
ledge of his aflfefction to all excellent craft and lere, that 
whatever will tend to make men wiser will have his 
countenance and favor with the king.” 

“That is it — that is it !” exclaimed Adam, rubbing 
his hands. “ My invention shall not die I” 

“And that invention ” 

“ Is one that will multiply exemplars of books with- 
out hands ; works of craft without ’prentice or journey- 
man ; will move wagons and litters without horses ; will 
direct ships without sails ; will — but, alack ! it is not 
yet complete, and, for want of means, it never may be.” 

Sibyll still kept her animated countenance fixed on 
Alwyn, whose intelligence she had already detected, and 
was charmed with the profound attention with which he 
listened. But her eye glancing from his sharp features 
to the handsome, honest face of the Nevile, the contrast 
was so forcible, that she could not restrain her laughter, 
though the moment after, a keen pang shot through her 
heart. The worthy Marmaduke had been in the act of 
conveying his cup to his lips — the cup stood arrested 


* Query, the Chinese? 


124 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

midway, his jaws dropped, his eyes opened to their 
widest extent, an expression of the most evident con- 
sternation and dismay spoke in every feature, and, when 
he heard the merry laugh of Sibyll, he pushed his stool 
from her as far as he well could, and surveyed her with 
a look of mingled fear and pity. 

“Alas ! thou art sure my poor father is a wizard 
now?” 

“ Pardie ! ” answered the Nevile. “ Hath he not said 
so ? Hath he not spoken of wagons without horses — 
ships without sails? And is not all this what every dis- 
sour and jongleur tells us of in his stories of Merlin ? 
Gentle maiden,” he added, earnestly drawing nearer to 
her, and whispering in a voice of much simple pathos — 
“ thou art young, and I owe thee much. Take care of 
thyself. Such wonders and derring-do are too solemn 
for laughter.” 

“Ah!” answered Sibyll, rising, “I fear they are. 
How can I expect the people to be wiser than thou, or 
their hard natures kinder in their judgment than thy 
kind heart ? ” Her low and melancholy voice went to 
the heart thus appealed to. Marraaduke also rose, and 
followed her into the parlor, or withdrawing-closet, 
while Adam and the goldsmith continued to converse 
(though Alwyn’s eye followed the young hostess), the 
former appearing perfectly unconscious of the secession 
of his other listeners. But Alwyn’s attention occasion- 
ally wandered, and he soon contrived to draw his host 
into the parlor. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


125 


When Nicholas rose, at last, to depart, he beckoned 
Sibyll aside ; “Fair mistress,” said he, with some awk- 
ward hesitation, “ forgive a plain, blunt tongue ; but ye 
of the better birth are not always above aid, even from 
such as I am. If you would sell these blazoned manu- 
scripts, I can not only obtain you a noble purchaser, iu 
my Lord Scales, or in my Lord Hastings, an equally 
ripe scholar, but it may be the means of my procuring a 
suitable patron for your father ; and, in these times, the 
scholar must creep under the knight’s manteline.” 

“ Master Alwyn,” said Sibyll, suppressing her tears, 
“ it was for my father’s sake that these labors were 
wrought. We are poor and friendless. Take the manu- 
scripts, and sell them as thou wilt, and God and St. 
Mary requite thee ! ” 

“Your father is a great man,” said Alwyn, after a 
pause. 

“But, were he to walk the streets, they would stone 
him,” replied Sibyll, with a quiet bitterness. 

Here the Nevile, carefully shunning the magician, 
who, iu the nervous excitement produced by the con- 
versation of a mind less uncongenial than he had en- 
countered for many years, seemed about to address him 
— here, I say, the Nevile chimed in — “ Hast thou no 
weapon but thy bludgeon ? Dear foster-brother, I fear 
for thy safety.” 

“ Nay, robbers rarely attack us mechanical folk ; and 
I know my way better than thou. I shall find a boat 
near York House, so pleasant night and quick cure to 
11 * 


126 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


thee, honored foster-brother ; I will send the tailor and 
other craftsmen to-morrow.” 

“And at the same time,” whispered Marmaduke, ac- 
companying his friend to the door, “ send me a breviary, 
just to patter an ave or so. This grey-haired carle puts 
my heart in a tremble. Moreover, buy me a gittern — a 
brave one — for the damozel. She is too proud to take 
money, and, ’fore heaven, I have small doubts the old 
wizard could turn my hose into nobles an’ he had a mind 
for such gear. Wagons without horses — ships without 
sails, quotha I ” 

As soon as Alwyn had departed, Madge appeared 
with the final refreshment, called “ the Wines,” consist- 
ing of spiced hippocras and confections, of the former 
of which the Nevile partook in solemn silence. 


CHAPTER VII. 

There is a Rod for the Back of every Fool who would be wiser 
than his Generation. 

The next morning, when Marmaduke descended to the 
hall, Madge, accosting him on the threshold, informed 
him that Mistress Sibyll was unwell, and kept her cham- 
ber, and that Master Warner was never visible much 
before noon. He was, .therefore, prayed to take his 
meal alone. “Alone” was a word peculiarly unwelcome 
to Marmaduke Nevile, who was an animal thoroughly 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS 127 

social and gregarious. He managed, therefore, to detain 
the old servant, who, besides the liking a skilful leech 
naturally takes to a thriving patient, had enough of her 
sex about her to be pleased with a comely face, and a 
frank, good-humored voice. Moreover, Marmaduke, 
wishing to satisfy his curiosity, turned the conversation 
upon Warner and Sibyll, a theme upon which the old 
woman was well disposed to be garrulous. He soon 
learned the poverty of the mansion, and the sacrifice of 
the gittern ; and his generosity and compassion were 
busily engaged in devising some means to requite the 
hospitality he had received, without wounding the pride 
of his host, when the arrival of his mails, together with 
the visits of the tailor and mercer, sent to him by Alwyn, 
diverted his thoughts into a new channel. 

Between the comparative merits of gowns and sur- 
coats, broad-toed shoes 'and pointed, some time was dis- 
posed of with much cheerfulness and edification ; but 
when his visitors had retired, the benevolent mind of the 
young guest again recurred to the penury of his host. 
Placing his marks before him on the table in the little 
withdrawing parlor, he began counting them over, and 
putting aside the sum he meditated devoting to Warner’s 
relief. “But how,” he muttered, “howto get him to 
take the gold. I know, by myself, what a gentleman 
and a knight’s son must feel at the proffer of alms — 
pardie 1 I would as lief Alwyn had struck me as offered 
me his gipsire — the ill-mannered, affectionate fellow I I 
must think — I must think ” 


128 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


And while still thinking, the door softly opened, and 
Warner himself, in a high state of abstraction and 
reverie, stalked noiselessly into the room, on his way to 
the garden, in which, when musing over some new spring 
for his invention, he was wont to peripatize. The sight 
of the gold on the table struck full on the philosopher’s 
eyes, and waked him at once from his reverie. That 
gold — oh what precious instruments, what learned manu- 
scripts it could purchase I That gold, it was the breath 
of life to his model ! He walked deliberately up to the 
table, and laid his hand upon one of the little heaps. 
Marmacluke drew back his stool, and stared at him with 
open mouth. 

“ Young man, what wantest thou with all this gold ?” 
said Adam, in a petulant, reproachful tone. “ Put it up 

— put it up I Never let the poor see gold ; it tempts 
them, sir — it tempts them.” And so saying, the student 
abruptly turned away his eyes, and moved towards the 
garden. 

Marmaduke rose and put himself in Adam’s way 

“ Honored sir,” said the young man, “ you say justly 

— what want I with all this gold? The only gold a 
young man should covet is eno’ to suffice for the knight’s 
spurs to his heels. If, without offence, you would — that 
is — ehem ! — I mean, gramercy I I shall never say it, 
but I believe my father owed your father four marks, 
and he bade me repay them. Here, sir I ” He held out 
the glittering coins — the philosopher’s hand closed on 
them as the fish’s maw closes on the bait. Adam burst 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 129 

into a laugh, that sounded strangely weird and unearthly 
upon Marmaduke’s startled ear. 

“All this for me!” he exclaimed. “Forme! No, 
no ! not for me, for it — I take it — I take it, sir ! I will 
pay it back with large usury. Come to me this day year, 
when this world will be a new world, and Adam Warner 
will be — ha ! ha ! Kind Heaven, I thank thee ! ” Sud- 
denly turning away, the philosopher strode through the 
hall, opened the front door, and escaped into the street. 

“By’r Lady!” said Marmaduke, slowly recovering 
his surprise, “ I need not have been so much at a loss ; 
the old gentleman takes to my gold as kindly as if it 
were mother’s milk. ’Fore heaven, mine host’s laugh is 
a ghastly thing ! ” So soliloquizing, he prudently put 
up the rest of his money, and locked his mails. 

As time went on, the young man became exceedingly 
weary of his own company. Sibyll still withheld her 
appearance : the gloom of the old hall, the uncultivated 
sadness of the lonely garden, preyed upon his spirits. 
At length, impatient to get a view of the world without, 
he mounted a high stool in the hall, and so contrived to 
enjoy the prospect, which the unglazed wicker lattice, 
deep set in the wall, afforded. But the scene without 
was little more animated than that within — all was so 
deserted in the neighborhood ! — the shops mean and 
scattered — the thoroughfare almost desolate. At last 
he heard a shout, or rather hoot, at a distance ; and, 
turning his attention whence it proceeded, he beheld a 
figure emerge from an alley opi)osite the casement, with 


1 


130 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


a sack under one arm, and several books heaped under 
the other. At his heels followed a train of ragged boys, 
shouting and hallooing, ^‘The wizard! the wizard! — 
Ah ! — Bah ! — The old deviPs-kin ! ” At this cry the 
dull neighborhood seemed suddenly to burst forth into 
life. From the casements and thresholds of every house, 
curious faces emerged, and many voices of men and 
women joined, in deeper bass, with the shrill tenor of 
the choral urchins, “ The wizard ! the wizard ! — out at 
daylight ! ” The person thus stigmatized, as he ap- 
proached the house, turned his face, with an expression 
of wistful perplexity, from side to side. His lips moved 
convulsively, and his face was very pale, but he spoke 
not. And now, the children seeing him near his refuge, 
became more outrageous. They placed themselves men- 
acingly before him — they pulled his robe — they even 
struck at him — and one, bolder than the rest, jumped 
up, and plucked his beard. At this last insult, Adam 
Warner, for it was he, broke silence; but such was the 
sweetness of his disposition, that it was rather with pity 
than reproof in his voice, that he said — 

“ Fie, little one ! — I fear me thine own age will have 
small honor if thou thus mockest mature years in me.” 

This gentleness only served to increase the audacity 
of his persecutors, who now, momentarily augmenting, 
presented a formidable obstacle to his further progress. 
Perceiving that he could not advance, without offensive 
measures on his own part, the poor scholar halted ; and 
looking at the crowd with mild dignity, he asked, 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


131 


“ What means this, my children ? How have I injured 
you ? '' 

“ The wizard — the wizard I’’ was the only answer he 
received. 

Adam shrugged his shoulders, and strode on with so 
sudden a step, that one of the smaller children, a curly- 
headed laughing rogue, of about eight years old, was 
thrown down at his feet, and the rest gave way. But 
the poor man, seeing one of his foes thus fallen, instead 
of pursuing his victory, again paused, and, forgetful of 
the precious burdens he carried, let drop the sack and 
books, and took up the child in his arms. On seeing 
their companion in the embrace of the wizard, a simul- 
taneous cry of horror broke from the assemblage. — 
“ He is going to curse poor Tim I ” 

“ My child I — my boy ! ” shrieked a woman, from one 
of the casements — “let go my child I ” 

On his part, the boy kicked and shrieked lustily, as 
Adam, bending his noble face tenderly over him, said, 
“ Thou art not hurt, child. Poor boy I thinkest thou I 
would harm thee ? ” While he spoke, a storm of mis- 
siles — mud, dirt, sticks, bricks, stones, — from the enemy, 
that had now fallen back in the rear, burst upon him. 
A stone struck him on the shoulder. Then his face 
changed — an angry gleam shot from his deep, calm eyes 
— he put down the child — and, turning steadily to the 
grown people at the windows, said, “Ye train your chil- 
dren ill” — picked up his sack and books— sighed, as he 
saw the latter stained by the mire, wliicli he wii)ed with 


132 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


his long sleeve, and too proud to show fear, slowly made 
for his door. Fortunately Sibyll had heard the clamor, 
and was ready to admit her father, and close her door 
upon the rush which instantaneously followed his escape. 
The baffled rout set up a yell of wrath, and the boys 
were now joined by several foes more formidable from 
the adjacent houses ; assured in their own minds that 
some terrible execration had been pronounced upon the 
limbs and body of Master Tim, who still continued bel- 
lowing and howling, probably from the excitement of 
finding himself raised to the dignity of a martyr, — the 
pious neighbors poured forth, with oaths, and curses, 
and such weapons as they could seize in haste, to storm 
the wizard’s fortress. 

From his casement Marmaduke Nevile had espied all 
that had hitherto passed, and though , indignant at the 
brutality of the persecutors, he had thought it by no 
means unnatural. “ If men, gentlemen born, will read 
uncanny books, and resolve to be wizards, why they 
must reap what they sow,” was the logical reflection that 
passed through the mind of that ingenuous youth ; Jbut 
when he now perceived the arrival of more important 
allies — when stones began to fly through the wicker 
lattices — when threats of setting fire to the house and 
burning the sorcerer, who muttered spells over innocent 
little boys, were heard, seriously increasing in depth and 
loudness— Marmaduke felt his chivalry called forth and. 
with some difficulty, opening the rusty wicket in the 
casement, lie exclaimed, “ Shame on you, my country 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 133 

men, for thus disturbing, in broad day, a peaceful habi 
tation ! Ye call mine host a wizard. Thus much say I 
on his behalf; I was robbed and wounded a few nights 
since in your neighborhood, and in this house alone I 
found shelter and healing.” 

The unexpected sight of the fair young face of Mar- 
maduke Nevile, and the healthful sound of his clear rin^- 
ing voice, produced a momentary effect on the besiegers, 
when one of them, a sturdy baker, cried out, “ Heed him 
not — he is a goblin ! Those devil-mongers can bake ye 
a dozen such every moment, as deftly as I can draw 
loaves from the oven I” 

This speech turned the tide, and at that instant a 
savage-looking man, the father of the aggrieved boy, 
followed by his wife, gesticulating and weeping, ran from 
his house, waving a torch in his right hand, his arm bare 
to the shoulder, and the cry of “ Fire the door I ” was 
universal. 

In fact, the danger now grew imminent ; several of 
the party were already piling straw and fagots against 
the threshold, and Marmaduke began to think the only 
chance of life to his host and Sibyll was in flight by 
some back way, when he beheld a man, clad somewhat 
iii the fashion of a country yeoman, a formidable knotted 
elub in his hand, pushing his way, with Herculean 
shoulders, through the crowd, and stationing himself 
before the threshold and brandishing aloft his formidable 
weapon, he exclaimed, “ What ! In the devil’s name, do 
rou mean to get yourselves all hanged for riot ? Do you 
L — 12 


134 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


think that King Edward is as soft a man as King Henry 
was, and that he will suffer any one but himself to set 
fire to people’s houses in this way ? I dare say you are 
all right enough on the main, but by the blood of St. 
Thomas, I will brain the first man who advances a step, 
— by way of preserving the necks of the rest I ” 

“A Robin I a Robin I ” cried several of the mob. “ It 
is our good friend Robin. Hearken to Robin. He is 
always right ! ” 

*‘Ay, that I am ! ” quoth the defender ; “ you know 
that well enough. If I had my way, the world should 
be turned upside-down, but what the poor folk should 
get nearer to the sun ! But what I say is this, never go 
against law, while the law is too strong. And it were a 
sad thing to see fifty fine fellows trussed up for burning 
an old wizard. So, be off with you, and let us, at least 
all that can afford it, make for Master Sancroft’s hostelrie, 
and talk soberly over our ale. For little, I trow, will ye 
work, now your blood’s up.” 

This address was received with a shout of approbation. 
The father of the injured child set his broad foot on his 
torch, the baker chucked up his white cap, the ragged 
boys yelled out, “A Robin ! a Robin !” and in less than 
two minutes the place was as empty as it had been before 
the appearance of the scholar. Marmaduke, who, though 
so ignorant of books, was acute and penetrating in all 
matters of action, could not help admiring the address 
and dexterity of the club-bearer ; and the danger being 
now over, withdrew from the casement, in search of the 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 135 

inmates of the house. Ascending the stairs, he found on 
the landing-place, near his room, and by the embrasure 
of a huge casement which jutted from the wall, Adam 
and his daughter. Adam was leaning against the wall, 
with his arms folded, and Sibyll, hanging upon him, was 
uttering the softest and most soothing words of comfort 
her tenderness could suggest. 

“ My child,’^ said the old man, shaking his head sadly, 
“ I shall never again have heart for these studies — never. 
A king’s anger I could brave, a priest’s malice I could 
pity — but to find the very children, the young race, for 
whose sake I have made thee and myself paupers, to find 

them thus — thus ” He stopped, for his voice failed 

him, and the tears rolled down his cheeks. 

“ Come and speak comfort to my father, Master 
Nevile I” exclaimed Sibyll, “come and tell him that 
whoever is above the herd, whether knight or scholar, 
must learn to despise the hootings that follow Merit. 
Father, father, they threw mud and stones at thy king 
as he passed through the streets of London. Thou art 
not the only one whom this base world misjudges.” 

“Worthy mine host 1” said Marmaduke, thus appealed 
to : “ Algates, it were not speaking truth to tell thee that 
I think a gentleman of birth and quality should walk the 
thoroughfares with a bundle of books under his arm, yet 
as for the raptril vulgar, the hildings and cullions who 
niss one day what they applaud the next, I hold it the 
duty of every Christian and well-born man to regard them 
as the dirt on the crossings. Brave soldiers term it no 


136 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

disgrace to receive a blow from a base hind. An’ it had 
been knights and gentles who had insulted thee, thou 
mightest have cause for shame. But a mob of lewd ras- 
callions and squalling infants — bah I verily, it is mere 
matter for scorn and laughter.” 

These philosophical propositions and distinctions did 
not seem to have their due effect upon Adam. He 
smiled, however, gently upon his guest, and with a blush 
over his pale face, said, “ I am rightly chastised, good 
young man ; mean was I, methinks, and sordid to take 
from thee thy good gold. But thou knowest not what 
fever burns in the brain of a man who feels that, had he 
wealth, his knowledge could do great things, — such 
things ! — I thought to repay thee well. Now the frenzy 
is gone, and I, who an hour agone esteemed myself a 
puissant sage, sink in mine own conceit to a miserable 
blinded fool. Child, I am very weak ; I will lay me 
down and rest.” 

So saying the poor philosopher went his way to his 
chamber, leaning on his daughter’s arm. 

In a few minutes Sibyll rejoined Marmaduke, who had 
returned to the hall, and informed him, that her father 
had lain down awhile to compose himself. 

“ It is a hard fate, sir,” said the girl, with a faint 
smile ; “ a hard fate, to be banned and accursed by the 
world, only because one has sought to be wiser than the 
world is.” 

“ Douce maiden,” returned the Nevile ; “it is happy 
for thee that thy sex forbids thee to follow thy father’s 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


137 


footsteps, or I should say his hard fate were thy fair 
warninp^.” 

Sibyll smiled faintly, and after a pause, said, with a 
deep blush : — 

“ You have been generous to my father; do not mis- 
judge him. He would give his last groat to a starving 
beggar. But when his passion of scholar and inventor 
masters him — thou mightest think him worse than miser. 
It is an over-noble yearning that ofttimes makes him 
mean.” 

. “ Nay,” answered Marmaduke, touched by the heavy 
sigh and swimming eyes with which the last words were 
spoken ; “ I have heard Nick Alwyn’s uncle, who was a 
learned monk, declare that he could not constrain him- 
self to pray to be delivered from temptation — seeing 
that he might thereby lose an occasion for filching some 
notable book ! For the rest,” he added, “ you forget 
how much I owe to Master Warner’s hospitality.” 

He took her hand with a frank and brotherly gallantry 
as he spoke; but the touch of that small, soft hand, 
freely and innocently resigned to him, sent a thrill to his 
heart — and again the face of Sibyll seemed to him 
wondrous fair. 

There was a long silence, which Sibyll was the first to 
break. She turned the conversation once more upon 
Marmaduke’s views in life. It had been easy for a 
deeper observer than he was, to see, that under all that 
young girl’s simplicity and sweetness, there lurked some- 
thing of dangerous ambition. She loved to recall the 
12 * 


138 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


court-life her childhood had known, though her youth 
had resigned it with apparent cheerfulness. Like many 
who are poor and fallen, Sibyll built herself a sad con- 
solation out of her pride ; she never forgot that she was 
well-born. But Marmaduke, in what was ambition, saw 
but interest in himself, and his heart beat more quickly 
as he bent his eyes upon that downcast, thoughtful, 
earnest countenance. 

After an hour thus passed, Sibyll left the guest, and 
remounted to her father’s chamber. She found Adam 
pacing the narrow floor, and muttering to himself. He 
turned abruptly as he entered, and said, “ Come hither, 
child — I took four marks from that young man, for I 
wanted books and instruments, and there are two left ; 
— see — take them back to him.” 

“ My father, he will not receive them. Fear not, thou 
shalt repay him some day.” 

Take them, I say, and if the young man says thee 
nay, why, buy thyself gauds and gear, or let us eat, and 
drink, and laugh. What else is life made for ? Ha ! 
ha ! Laugh, child, laugh ! ” 

There was something strangely pathetic in this out- 
burst, this terrible mirth, born of profound dejection. 
Alas for this guileless, simple creature, who had clutched 
at gold with a huckster’s eagerness — who, forgetting 
the wants of his own child, had employed it upon the 
service of an Abstract Thought, and whom the scorn 
of his kind now pierced through all the folds of his close- 
webbed philosophy and self-forgetful genius. Awful is 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


139 


the duel between man and the age in which he lives I 
For the gain of posterity, Adam Warner had martyrised 
existence, — and the children pelted him as he passed 
the streets ! Sibyll burst into tears. 

“ No, my father, no,” she sobbed, pushing back the 
money into his hands. Let us both starve, rather than 
you should despond. God and man will bring you jus- 
tice yet.” 

‘‘Ah ! ” said the baffled enthusiast, “ my whole mind 
is one sore now. I feel as if I could love man no more. 
Go, and leave me. Go, I say ! ” and the poor student, 
usually so mild and gall-less, stamped his foot in impo- 
tent rage. Sibyll, weeping as if her heart would break, 
left him. 

Then Adam Warner again paced to and fro restlessly, 
and again muttered to himself for several minutes. At 
last he approached his Model — the model of a mighty 
and stupendous invention — the fruit of no chimerical 
and visionary science — a great Promethean thing, that, 
once matured, would divide the Old World from the 
New, enter into all operations of Labor, animate all the 
future affairs, color all the practical doctrines, of active 
^en. He paused before it, and addressed it as if it heard 
and understood him — “ My hair was dark, and my tread 
was firm, when one night, a thought passed into my 

soul a thought to make Matter the gigantic slave of 

Mind. Out of this thought, thou, not yet born after five- 
and-twenty years of travail, wert conceived. My coffers 
were then full, and my name was honored ; and the rich 


140 ^HE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

respected, and the poor loved, me. Art thou a devil, 
that has tempted me to ruin, or a god, that has lifted 
me above the earth ? I am old before my time, my hair 
is blanched, my frame is bowed, my wealth is gone, my 
name is sullied. And all, dumb idol of Iron, and the 
Element, all for thee I I had a wife whom I adored — 
she died — I forgot her loss in the hope of thy life. I 
have a child still — God and our Lady forgive me — she 
is less dear to me than thou hast been. And now — ” 
the old man ceased abruptly, and folding his arms, looked 
at the deaf iron sternly, as on a human foe. By his side 
was a huge hammer, employed in the toils of his forge ; 
suddenly he seized and swung it aloft. One blow, and 
the labor of years was shattered into pieces I One blow ! 
— But the heart failed him, and the hammer fell heavily 
to the ground. 

“Ay !” he muttered, “true — true I if thou, who hast 
destroyed all else, wert destroyed too, what were left me ? 
Is it a crime to murder Man ? — a greater crime to mur- 
der Thought, which is the life of all men. Come — I 
forgive thee ! ’’ 

And all that day, and all that night, the Enthusiast 
labored in his chamber, and the next day the remembrance 
of the hootings, the pelting, the mob, was gone — clean 

gone from his breast. The Model began to move life 

hovered over its wheels ; and the Martyr of Science had 
forgotten the very world for which he, groaning and 
rejoicing, toiled 1 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


141 


CHAPTER Tin. 

Master Marmaduke Nevile makes love and is frightened. 

For two or three days, Marmaduke and Sibyll were 
necessarily brought much together. Such familiarity of 
intercourse was peculiarly rare in that time, when, except 
perhaps in the dissolute court of Edward IT., the virgin.s 
of gentle birth mixed sparingly, and with great reserve, 
amongst those of opposite sex. Marmaduke, rapidly 
recovering from the effect of his wounds, and without 
other resource than Sibyll’s society, in the solitude of his 
confinement, was not proof against the temptation which 
one so young and so sweetly winning brought to his 
fancy or his senses. The poor Sibyll- — she was no 
faultless paragon — she was a rare and singular mixture 
of many opposite qualities in heart and in intellect I She 
was one moment infantine in simplicity and gay playful- 
ness — the next, a shade passed over her bright face, and 
she uttered some sentence of that bitter and chilling 
wdsdom, which the sense of persecution, the cruelty of 
the world, had already taught her. She was, indeed, at 
that age when the Child and the Woman are struggling 
against each other. Her character w^as not yet formed 

a little happiness w^ould have ripened it at once into 

the richest bloom of goodness. But sorrow, that ever 
sharpens the intellect, might only serve to sour the heart. 


142 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

Her mind was so intimately chaste and pure, that she 
knew not the nature of the admiration she excited. But 
the admiration pleased her as it pleases some young child 
— she was vain then, but it was an infantas vanity, not a 
woman’s. And thus, from innocence itself, there was a 
fearlessness, a freedom, a something endearing and 
familiar in her manner, which might have turned a wiser 
head than Marmaduke Nevile’s. And this the more, 
because, while liking her* young guest, confiding in him, 
raised in her own esteem by his gallantry, enjoying that 
intercourse of youth with youth, so unfamiliar to her, 
and surrendering herself the more to its charm from the 
joy that animated her spirits, in seeing that her father 
had forgotten his humiliation, and returned to his wonted 
labors — she yet knew not for the handsome Nevile one 
sentiment that approached to love. Her mind was so 
superior to his own, that she felt almost as if older in 
years, and in their talk, her rosy lips preached to him in 
grave advice. 

On the landing, by Marmaduke’s chamber, there was a 
large oriel casement jutting from the wall. It was only 
glazed at the upper part, and that most imperfectly, the 
lower part being closed at night, or in inclement weather, 
with rude shutters. The recess formed by this comfort- 
less casement answered, therefore, the purpose of a bal- 
cony ; it commanded a full view of the vicinity without, 
and gave to those who might be passing by, the power 
also of indulging their own curiosity by a view of tlie 
interior 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS.. 143 

Whenever he lost sight of Sibyll, and had grown weary 
of the peacock, this spot was Marmaduke’s favorite 
haunt. It diverted him, poor youth, to look out of the 
window upon the livelier world beyond. The place, it is 
true, was ordinarily deserted, but still the spires and 
turrets of London were always discernible — and they 
were something. 

Accordingly, in this embrasure stood Marmaduke, 
when one morning, Sibyll, coming from her father’s room, 
joined him. 

“And what. Master Nevile,” said Sibyll, with a 
malicious yet charming smile, “ what claimed thy medita- 
tions ? Some misgiving as to the trimming of thy tunic, 
or the length' of:*^® jfl^shoon ? ” 

“Nay,” returned Marmaduke, gravely, “such thoughts, 
though not without their importance in the mind of a 
gentleman, who would not that his ignorance of court 
delicacies should commit him to the japes of his equals, 
were not at that moment uppermost. I was think- 
ing ” 

“ Of those mastiffs, quarreling for a bone. Avow it.” 

“ By our Lady I saw them not, but now I look, they 
are brave dogs. Hal — seest thou how gallantly each 
fronts the other, the hair bristling, the eyes fixed, the 
tail on end, the fangs glistening. Now the lesser one 
moves slowly round and round the bigger, who, mind 
you, Mistress Sibyll, is no dullard, but moves, too, quick 
as thought, not to be taken unawares. Ha ! that is a 
brave spring I Heigh, dogs, heigit ! a good sight — it 


144 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


makes the blood warm I — the little one hath him by the 
throat I 

“Alack,” said Sibyll, turning away her eyes, “can you 
find pleasure in seeing two poor brutes mangle each other 
for a bone ? ” 

“ By St. Dunstan I doth it matter what may be the 
cause of quarrel, so long as dog or man bears himself 
bravely, with a due sense of honor and derring-do. See ! 
the big one is up again. Ah I foul fall the butcher, who 
drives them away. Those seely mechanics know not the 
joyaunce of fair fighting to gentle and to hound. For 
a hound, mark you, hath nothing mechanical in his 
nature. He is a gentleman all over — brave against 
equal and stranger, forbearing to ^^'^^'mall Sfeid defence- 
less, true in poverty and need where he loveth, stern and 
ruthless where he hateth, and despising thieves, hild- 
ings, and the vulgar, as much as e’er a gold spur in King 
Edward’s court ! Oh ! certes, your best gentleman is the 
best hound ! ” 

“You moralize to-day. And I know not how to 
gainsay you,” returned Sibyll, as the dogs, reluctantly 
beaten off, retired each from each, snarling and reluctant, 
while a small black cur, that had hitherto sat unobserved 
at the door of a small hostelrie, now cooly approached 
and dragged off the bone of contention. “But what 
say’fct thou now ? See I see ! the patient mongrel carries 
off the bone from the gentlemen hounds. Is that the 
way of the world ? ” 

“Bardie ! it is a naught world, if so, and much changed 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 145 

from the times of our fathers, the Normans. But these 
Saxons are getting uppermost again, and the yard 
measure, I fear me, is more potent in these holiday times 
than the mace or the battle-axe.” The Nevile paused, 
sighed, and changed the subject. “ This house of thine 
must have been a stately pile in its day. I see but one 
side of the quadrangle is left, though it be easy to trace 
where the other three have stood.” 

“And you may see their stones and their fittings in 
the butcher’s and baker’s stalls over the way,” replied 
Sibyll. 

“Ay I ” said the Nevile, “ the parings of the gentry 
begin to be the wealth of the varlets.” 

“Little ought we to pine at that,” returned Sibyll, “if 
the varlets were but gentle with our poverty ; but they 
loathe the humbled fortunes on which they rise, and while 
slaves to the rich, are tyrants to the poor.” 

This was said so sadly, that the Nevile felt his eyes 
overflow ; and the humble dress of the girl, the melan- 
choly ridges which evinced the site of a noble house, now 
shrunk into a dismal ruin, the remembrance of the pastime- 
ground, the insults of the crowd, and the broken gittern, 
all conspired to move his compassion, and to give force 
to yet more tender emotions. 

“Ah I ” he said, suddenly, and with a quick faint blush 
over his handsome and manly countenance — “ ah, fair 
maid — fair Sibyll 1 — God grant that I may win some- 
thing of gold and fortune amidst yonder towers, on which 
the sun shines so cheerly. God grant it, not for my sake 

L— 13 


K 


146 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


— not for mine ; but that I may have something besides 
a true heart and a stainless name to lay at thy feet. Oh, 
Sibyll I By this hand — by my father’s soul — I love 
thee, Sibyll I Have I not said it before ? Well, hear 
me now — I love thee 1 ” 

As he spoke, he clasped her hand in his own, and she 
suffered it for one instant to rest in his. Then withdraw- 
ing it, and meeting his enamored eyes, with a strange 
sadness in her own darker, deeper, and more intelligent 
orbs, she said — 

“ I thank thee — thank thee for the honor of such kind 
thoughts ; and frankly I answer, as thou hast frankly 
spoken. It was sweet to me, who have known little in 
life not hard and bitter — sweet to wish I had a brother 
like thee, and, as a brother, I can love and pray for thee. 
But ask not more, Marmaduke. I have aims in life which 
forbid all other love I ” 

“Art thou too aspiring for one who has his spurs to 
win ? ” 

“Not so; but listen. My mother’s lessons and my 
own heart have made my poor father the first end and 
object of all things on earth to me. I live to protect 

him, work for him, honor him, and for the rest I have 

thoughts thou canst not know — an ambition thou canst 
not feel. Nay,” she added, with that delightful smile 
which chased away the graver thought which had before 
saddened her aspect, “ what would thy sober friend, 
Master Alwyn, say to thee, if he heard thou hadst courted 
the wizard’s daughter ? ” 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

“By my faith,” exclaimed Marmaduke, “thou art a 
very April — smiles and clouds in a breath! If what 
thou despisest in me be my want of bookcraft, and such- 
like, by my halidame, I will turn scholar for thy sake ; 
and ” 

Here, as he had again taken Sibyll’s hand, with the 
passionate ardor of his bold nature, not to be lightly 
daunted by a maiden’s first “No,” a sudden shrill, wild 
burst of laughter, accompanied with a gusty fit of un- 
melodious music from the street below, made both maiden 
and youth start, and turn their eyes : there, weaving their 
immodest dance, tawdry in their tinsel attire, their naked 
arms glancing above their heads, as they waved on high 
their instruments, went the timbrel-girls. 

“Ha! ha!” cried their leader, “see the gallant and 
the witch-leman ! The glamour has done its work ! 
Foul is fair ! — foul is fair ! and the devil will have his 
own ! ” 

But these creatures, whose bold license the ancient 
chronicler records, were rarely seen alone. They haunted 
parties of pomp and pleasure ; they linked together the 
extremes of life — the grotesque Chorus that introduced 
the terrible truth of foul vice, and abandoned wretched- 
ness in the midst of the world’s holiday and pageant. 
So now, as they wheeled into the silent, squalid street, 
they heralded a goodly company of dames and cavaliers, 
on horseback, who were passing through the neighboring 
plains into the park of Marybone to enjoy the sport of 
falconry. The splendid dresses of this procession, and 


148 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

the grave and measured dignity with which it swep* 
along, contrasted forcibly with the wild movements and 
disorderly mirth of the timbrel players. These last 
darted round and round the riders, holding out their 
instruments for largess, and retorting, with laugh and 
gibe, the disdainful look or sharp rebuke with which their 
salutations were mostly received. 

Suddenly, as the company, two by two, paced up the 
street, Sibyll uttered a faint exclamation, and strove to 
snatch her hand from the Nevile’s grasp. Her eye rested 
upon one of the horsemen who rode last, and who seemed 
in earnest conversation with a dame, who, though scarcely 
in her first youth, excelled all her fair companions in 
beauty of face and grace of 'horsemanship, as well as in 
the costly equipments of the white barb that caracolled 
beneath her easy hand. At the same moment the horse- 
man looked up and gazed steadily at Sibyll, whose 
countenance grew pale, and flushed, in a breath. His 
eye then glanced rapidly at Marmaduke — a half smile 
passed his pale, firm lips ; he slightly raised the plumed 
cap from his brow — inclined gravely to Sibyll — and, 
turning once more to his companion, appeared to answer 
some question she addressed to him, as to the object of 
his salutation, for her look, which was proud, keen, and 
lofty, was raised to Sibyll, and then dropped somewhat 
disdainfully, as she listened to the words addressed her 
by the cavalier. 

The lynx eyes of the tymbesteres had seen the recog- 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 149 

hition ; and their leader, laying her bold hand on the 
embossed bridle of the horseman, exclaimed, in a voice 
shrill and loud enough to be heard in the balcony above, 
“ Largess I noble lord, largess I for the sake of the lady 
thou lovest best I ” 

The fair equestrian turned away her head at these 
words, the nobleman watched her a moment, and dropped 
some coins into the timbrel. 

“ Ha I ha I ” cried the tymbestere, pointing her long 
arm to Sibyll, and springing towards the balcony — 

“The cushat would mate 
Above her state, 

And she flutters her wings round the falcon’s beak; 

But death to the dove 
Is the falcon’s love — 

Oh, sharp is the liiss of the falcon’s beak ! ” 

Before this rude song was ended, Sibyll had vanished 
from the place ; the cavalcade had disappeared. The 
timbrel-players, without deigning to notice Marmaduke, 
darted elsewhere to ply their discordant trade, and the 
Hevile, crossing himself devoutly, muttered “ Jesu defend 
,us ! Those she Will-o’-the-wisps are eno’ to scare all 
the blood out of one’s body. What — a murrain on 
! — do they portend, flitting round and round, and 
skirting off, as if the devil’s broomstick was behind them ? 
By the mass I they have frighted away the damozel, and 
I am not sorry for it. They have left me small heart for 
the part of Sir Launval.” 

13 * 


150 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

His meditations were broken off by the sudden sight 
of Nicholas Alwyn^ mounted on a small palfrey, and 
followed by a sturdy groom on horseback, leading a 
steed handsomely caparisoned. In another moment, Mar- 
maduke had descended — opened the door — and drawn 
Alwyn into the hall. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Master Marmaduke Nevile leaves the Wizard’s House for the Great 
World. 

“ Right glad am I,” said Nicholas, “ to see you so 
stout and so hearty, for I am the bearer of good news. 
Though I have been away, I have not forgotten you j 
and it so chanced that I went yesterday to attend my 
lord of Warwick with some nowches* and knackeries, 
that he takes out as gifts and exemplars of English work. 
They were indifferently well wrought, especially a cheve- 
sail, of which the ” 

“ Spare me the fashion of thy mechanicals, and come 
to the point,” interrupted Marmaduke, impatiently. 

“ Pardon me. Master Nevile. I interrupt thee not 
when thou talkest of bassinets and hauberks — every 
cobbler to his last. But, as thou sayest, to the point : 
the stout earl, while scanning my workmanship, for in 


* Nowches — buckles and other ornaments 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 151 

much the chevesail was mine, was pleased to speak 
graciously of my skill with the bow, of which he had 
heard ; and he then turned to thyself, of whom my Lord 
Montagu had already made disparaging mention : when 
I told the earl somewhat more about thy qualities and 
disposings ; and when I spoke of thy desire to serve him, 
and the letter of which thou art the bearer, his black 
brows smoothed mighty graciously, and he bade me tell 
thee to come to him this afternoon, and he would judge 
of thee with his own eyes and ears. Wherefore I have 
ordered the craftsmen to have all thy gauds and gear 
ready at thine hostelrie, and I have engaged thee hench- 
men and horses for thy fitting appearance. Be quick : 
time and the great wait for no man. So take whatever 
thou needest for present want from thy mails, and I will 
send a porter for the rest ere sunset.” 

“ But the gittern for the damozel ? ” 

“I have provided that for thee, as is meet.” And 
Nicholas, stepping back, eased the groom of a case which 
contained a gittern, whose workmanship and ornaments 
delighted the Nevile. 

' It is of my lord the young duke of Gloucester’s own 
musical-vendor; and the duke, though a lad yet, is a 
notable judge of all appertaining to the gentle craft.* So 
despatch, and away I ” 

Marmaduke retired to his chamber, and Nicholas, after 

* For Richard III.’s love of music, and patronage of musicians 
and minstrels, see the discriminating character of that prince in 
Sharon Turner’s “ History of England,” vol. iv. p. 66 


i5‘i THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

a moment spent in silent thought, searched the room for 
the hand-bell, which then made the mode of communica- 
tion between the master and domestics. Not finding this 
necessary luxury, he contrived at last to make Madge 
hear his voice from her subterranean retreat; and, on her 
arrival, sent her in quest of Sibyll. 

The answer he received was, that Mistress Sibyll was 
ill, and unable to see him. Alwyn looked disconcerted 
at this intelligence, but, drawing from his girdle a small 
gipsire, richly broidered, he prayed Madge to deliver it 
to her young mistress, and inform her that it was the 
fruit of the commission with which she had honored him. 

“ It is passing strange,” said he, pAcing the hall alone 
— “passing strange, that the poor child should have 
taken such hold on me. After all, she would be a bad 
wife for a plain man like me. Tush I that is the trader’s 
thought all over. Have I brought no fresher feeling out 
of my fair village-green ? Would it not be sweet to work 
for her, and rise in life, with her by my side ? And these 
girls of the city — so prim and so brainless ! — as well marry 
a painted puppet. Sibyll 1 Am I dement? Stark wode? 
What have I to do with girls and marriage ? Humph! 
I marvel what Marmaduke still thinks of her — and she 
of him.” 

While Alwyn thus soliloquised, the Nevile having 
hastily arranged his dress, and laden himself with the 
moneys his mails contained, summoned old Madge to re- 
ceive his largess, and to conduct him to Warner’s cham- 
ber, in order to proffer his farewell. 


THE LAST or THE BARONS. 153 

With somewhat of a timid step he followed the old 
woman (who kept muttering thanks and benedicites, as 
she eyed the coin in her palm) up the rugged stairs, — and 
for the first time knocked at the door of the student^s 
sanctuary. No answer came. “Eh, sir! you must 
enter,” said Madge; “an’ you fired a bombard under his 
ear he would not heed you.” So, suiting the action to 
the word, she threw open the door, and closed it behind 
him, as Marmaduke entered. 

The room was filled with smoke, through which mirky 
atmosphere the clear red light of the burning charcoal 
peered out steadily like a Cyclop’s eye. A small, but 
heaving, regular, laboring, continuous sound, as of a 
fairy hammer, smote the young man’s ear. But, as his 
gaze, accustoming itself to the atmosphere, searched 
around, he could not perceive what was its cause. Adam 
Warner was standing in the middle 4)f the room, his arms 
folded, and contemplating something at a little distance, 
which Marmaduke could not accurately distinguish. The 
youth took courage, and approached. “Honored mine 
host,” said he, “I thank thee for hospitality and kindness, 
J crave pardon for disturbing thee in thy incanta— ehem ! 
thy thy studies, and I come to bid thee farewell.” 

Adam turned round with a puzzled, absent air, as if 
scarcely recognizing his guest ; at length, as his recollec- 
tion slowly came back to him, he smiled graciously, and 
said ; “ Good youth, thou art richly welcome to what 
little it was in my power to do for thee. Peradventure, 
a time may come when they who seek the roof of Adam 


154 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


Warner may find less homely cheer — a less rugged habi- 
tation — for look you!” he exclaimed, suddenly, with a 
burst of irrepressible enthusiasm — and laying his hand on 
IsTevile’s arm, as, through all the smoke and grime that 
obscured his face, flashed the ardent soul of the triumph- 
ant Inventor, “ look you ! since you have been in this 
house, one of my great objects is well-nigh matured — 
achieved. Come hither,” and he dragged the wondering 
Marmaduke to his model, or Eureka, as Adam had fondly 
named his contrivance. The Nevile then perceived that 
it was from the interior of this machine that the sound 
which had startled him, arose ; to his eye the thing was 
uncouth and hideous ; from the jaws of an iron serpent, 
that, wreathing round it, rose on high with erect crest, 
gushed a rapid volume of black smoke, and a damp spray 
fell around. A column of iron in the centre kept in per- 
petual and regular motion, rising and sinking successively, 
as the whole mechanism within seemed alive with noise 
and action. 

“ The Syracusan asked an inch of earth, beyond the 
earth, to move the earth,” said Adam ; “ I stand in the 
world, and lo ! with this engine the world shall one day 
be moved.” 

“ Holy Mother 1 ” faltered Marmaduke ; “ I pray thee, 
dread sir, to ponder well ere thou attemptest any such 
sports with the habitation in which every woman’s son is 
so concerned. Bethink thee, that if in moving the world 
thou shouldst make any mistake, it would ” 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


155 


“Now stand there and attend,’^ interrupted Adam, who 
had not heard one word of this judicious exhortation. 

“Pardon me, terrible sirl” exclaimed Marmaduke, in 
great trepidation, and retreating rapidly to the door ; 
“ but I have heard that the fiends are mighty malignant 
to all lookers-on, not initiated.” 

While he spoke, fast gushed the smoke, heavily heaved 
the fairy hammers, up and down, down and up, sank or 
rose the column, with its sullen sound. The young man’s 
heart sank to the soles of his feet. 

“In deed and in truth,” he stammered out, “I am but 
a dolt in these matters; I wish thee all success compati- 
ble with the weal of a Christian, and bid thee, in sad 
humility, good day: ” and he added, in a whisper — “the 
Lord’s forgiveness I Amen I ” 

Marmaduke, then, fairly rushed through the open door, 
and hurried out of the chamber as fast as possible. 

He breathed more freely as he descended the stairs. 
“ Before I would call that grey carle my father, or his 
child my wife, may I feel all the hammers of the elves and 
sprites he keeps tortured within that ugly little prison- 
house, playing a death’s march on my body. Holy St. 
Dunstan, the timbrel-girls came in time I They say 
these wizards always have fair daughters, and their love 
can be no blessing I ” 

As he thus muttered, the door of Sibyll’s chamber 
opened, and she stood before him at the threshold. Her 
countenance was very pale, and bore evidence of weeping. 


156 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

There was a silence on both sides, which the girl was the 
first to break. 

“ So, Madge tells me, thou art about to leave us?” 

“Yes, gentle maiden! I — I — that is, my Lord of 
Warwick has summoned me. I wish and pray for all 
blessings on thee I and — and — if ever it be mine to serve 
or aid thee, it will be — that is — verily, my tongue falters, 
but my heart — that is — fare thee well, maiden ! — Would 
thou hadst a less wise father; and so may the saints (St. 
Anthony especially — whom the Evil One was parlous 
afraid of) guard and keep thee!” 

With this strange and incoherent address, Marmaduke 
left the maiden standing by the threshold of her miserable 
chamber. Hurrying into the hall, he summoned Alwyn 
from his meditations, and, giving the gittern to Madge, 
with an injunction to render it to her mistress, with his 
greeting and service, he vaulted lightly on his steed ; the 
steady and more sober Alwyn mounted his palfrey with 
slow care and due caution. As the air of spring waved 
the fair locks of the young cavalier, as the good horse 
caracolled under his lithesome weight, his natural temper 
of mind, hardy, healthful, joyous, and world-awake, re- 
turned to him. The image of Sibyll and her strange 
father fled from his thoughts like sickly dreams 


BOOK SECOND 


THE KING’S COURT. 


CHAPTER I. 

Earl Warwick the King-Maker. 

The young men entered the Strand, which, thanks to 
the profits of a toll-bar, was a passable road for eques- 
trians, studded towards the river, as we have before 
observed, with stately and half-fortified mansions ; while 
on the opposite side, here and there, were straggling 
houses of a humbler kind — the medieval villas of mer- 
chant and trader — (for from the earliest period since 
the Conquest, the Londoners had delight in such retreats) 
surrounded with blossoming orchards,* and adorned in 
front with the fleur-de-lis, emblem of the vain victories 
of renowned Agincourt. But by far the greater portion 
of the road northward, stretched, unbuilt upon, towards 
a fair chain of fields and meadows, refreshed by many 
brooks, “turning water-mills with a pleasant noise.” 

* Fitzstephen, — “On all sides, without the suburbs, are the 
citizens’ gardens and orchards,” &c. 

I. — 14 


( 167 ) 


158 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

High rose, on the thoroughfare, the famous Cross, at 
which “the Judges Itinerant whilome sate, without 
London.’’ * There, hallowed and solitary, stood the inn 
for the penitent pilgrims, who sought “ the murmuring 
runnels ” of St. Clement’s healing well ; for in this neigh- 
borhood, even from the age of the Roman, springs of 
crystal wave, and salubrious virtue, received the homage 
of credulous disease. Through the gloomy arches of 
the Temple Gate and Lud, our horsemen wound their 
way, and finally arrived in safety at Marmaduke’s hos- 
telrie in the East Chepe. Here Marmaduke found the 
decorators of his comely person already assembled. The 
simpler, yet more manly fashions he had taken from the 
provinces, were now exchanged for an attire worthy the 
kinsman of the great minister of a court, unparalleled, 
since the reign of William the Red King, for extrava- 
gant gorgeousness of dress. His corset was of the finest 
cloth, sown with seed pearls ; above it, the lawn shirt, 
worn without collar, partially appeared, fringed with 
gold ; over this was loosely hung a supertunic of crimson 
sarcenet, slashed and pounced with a profusion of fringes. 
His velvet cap, turned up at the sides, extended in a 
point far over the forehead. His hose — under which 
appellation is to be understood what serves us of the 
modern day both for stockings and pantaloons — were 
of white cloth, and his shoes, very narrow, were curiously 
carved into chequer work at the instep, and tied with 


* Stowe. 


THE LAST OP THE BAEONS. 


159 


bobbins of gold thread, turning up, like skates at the 
extremity, three inches in length. His dagger was sus- 
pended by a slight silver-gilt chain, and his girdle con- 
tained a large gipsire, or pouch, of embossed leather, 
richly gilt. 

And this dress, marvellous as it seemed to the Nevile, 
the tailor gravely assured him was far under the mark 
of the highest fashion, and that an’ the noble youth had 
been a knight, the shoes would have stretched at least 
three inches farther over the natural length of the feet, 
the placard have shone with jewels, and the tunic luxu- 
riated in flowers of damascene. Even as it was, how- 
ever, Marmaduke felt a natural diffidence of his habili- 
ments, which cost him a round third of his whole capital. 
And no bride ever unveiled herself with more shamefaced 
bashfulness than did Marmaduke Nevile experience when 
he remounted his horse, and taking leave of his foster- 
brother, bent his way to Warwick Lane, where the earl 
lodged. 

The narrow streets were, however, crowded with eques- 
trians, whose dress eclipsed his own, some bending their 
way to the Tower, some to the palaces of the Flete. 
Carriages there were none, and only twice he encountered 
the huge litters, in which some aged prelate or some 
high-born dame, veiled greatness from the day. But the 
frequent vistas to the river gave glimpses of the gay 
boats and barges that crowded the Thames, which was 
then the principal thoroughfare for every class, but more 
especially the noble. The ways were fortunately dry and 


160 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

clean for London ; though occasionally deep holes and 
furrows in the road menaced perils to the unwary horse- 
man. The streets themselves might well disappoint in 
splendor the stranger’s eye ; for although, viewed at a 
distance, ancient London was incalculably more pictu- 
resque and stately than the modern ; yet, when fairly in 
its tortuous labyrinths, it seemed to those who had 
improved the taste by travel, the meanest and the mirkiest 
capital of Christendom. The streets were marvellously 
narrow, the upper stories, chiefly of wood, projecting far 
over the lower, which were formed of mud and plaster. 
The shops were pitiful booths, and the ’prentices standing 
at the entrance bare-headed and cap in hand, and lining 
the passages, as the old French writer avers comme 
idoles* kept up an eternal din with their clamorous 
invitations, often varied by pert witticisms on some 
churlish passenger, or loud vituperations of each other. 
The whole ancient family of the London criers were in 
full bay. Scarcely had Marmaduke’s ears recovered the 
shock of “ Hot peascods— all hot,” than they were saluted 
with “mackerel,” “sheep’s feet — hot sheep’s feet.” At 
the smaller taverns stood the inviting vociferators of 
“cock-pie,” “ribs of beef— hot beef,” while; blended 
with these multitoned discords, whined the vielle or 
primitive hurdy-gurdy, screamed the pipe, twanged the 
harp, from every quarter where the thirsty paused to 
drink, or the idler stood to gape.f 


* Perlin. 


f See Lydgate’s “ London Lyckpenny.' 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


161 


Through this Babel Marraaduke at last slowly wound 
his way, and arrived before the mighty mansion in which 
the chief baron of England held his state. 

As he dismounted and resigned his steed to the ser- 
vitor hired for him by Alwyn, Marmaduke paused a 
moment, struck by the disparity, common as it was to 
eyes more accustomed to the metropolis, between the 
stately edifice and the sordid neighborhood. He had 
not noticed this so much when he had repaired to the 
earl’s house on his first arrival in London — for his 
thoughts then had been too much bewildered by the 
general bustle and novelty of the scene — but now it 
seemed to him, that he better comprehended the homage 
accorded to a great noble in surveying, at a glance, the 
immeasurable eminence to which he was elevated above 
his fellow-men by w^ealth and rank. 

Far on either side of the wings of the earl’s abode 
stretched, in numerous deformity, sheds rather than 
bouses, of broken plaster and crazy timbers. But, here 
and there, were open places of public reception, crowded 
with the lower followers of the puissant chief ; and the 
eye rested on many idle groups of sturdy swash-bucklers, 
some half-clad in armor, some in rude jerkins of leather, 
before the doors of these resorts — as others, like bees 
about a hive, swarmed in and out with a perpetual hum. 

The exterior of Warwick House was of a grey, but 
dingy stone, and presented a half-fortified and formidable 
appearance. The windows, or rather loop-holes, towards 
the street, were few, and strongly barred. Tlie black 
14* L 


162 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


and massive arch of the gateway yawned between two 
huge square towers ; and from a yet higher, but slender 
tower on the inner side, the flag gave the “White Bear 
and Ragged Staff” to the smoky air. Still, under the 
portal as he entered, hung the grate of the portcullis, 
and the square court which he saw before him swarmed 
with the more immediate retainers of the earl, in scarlet 
jackets, wrought with their chieftain’s cognizance. A 
man of gigantic girth and stature, who officiated as 
porter, leaning against the wall under the arch, now 
emerged from the shadow, and, with sufficient civility, 
demanded the young visitor’s name and business. On 
hearing the former, he bowed low as he doffed his cap, 
and conducted Marmaduke through the first quadrangle. 
The two sides to the right and left were devoted to the 
offices and rooms of retainers, of whom no less than six 
hundred, not to speak of the domestic and more orderly 
retinue, attested the state of the Last of the English 
Barons on his visits to the capital. Far from being then, 
as now, the object of the great to thrust all that belongs 
to the service of the house out of sight, it was their 
pride to strike awe into the visitor by the extent of 
accommodation afforded to their followers : some seated 

on benches of stone ranged along the w^alls some 

grouped in the centre of the court — some lying at length 
upon the two oblong patches of what had been turf, till 
worn away by frequent feet — this domestic army filled 
the young Nevile with an admiration far greater than 
the gay satins of the knights and noldes who had gathered 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


163 


round the lord of Montagu and Northumberland at the 
pastime-ground. 

This assemblage, however, were evidently under a rude 
discipline of their own. They were neither noisy nor 
drunk. They made way with surly obeisance as the 
cavalier passed, and closing on his track like some horde 
of wild cattle, gazed after him with earnest silence, and 
then turned once more to their indolent whispers with 
each other. 

And now, Nevile entering the last side of the quad- 
rangle, the huge hall, divided from the passage by a 
screen of stone fretwork, so fine as to attest the hand of 
some architect in the reign of Henry III., stretched to 
his right ; and so vast, in truth, it was, that though more 
than fifty persons were variously engaged therein, their 
number was lost in the immense space ; of these, at one 
end of the longer and lower table beneath the dais, some 
squires of good dress and mien were engaged at chess 
or dice ; others were conferring in the gloomy embrasures 
of the casements ; some walking to and fro ; others 
gathered round the shovel-board. At the entrance of 
this hall, the porter left Marmaduke, after exchanging a 
whisper with a gentleman whose dress eclipsed the 
Nevile’s in splendor; and this latter personage, who, 
though of high birth, did not disdain to perform the 
office of chamberlain, or usher, to the knight-like earl, 
advanced to Marmaduke with a smile, ind said — 

‘‘ My lord expects you, sir, and has appointed this time 
to receive you, that you may not be held back fron^ his 


164 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


presence by the crowds that crave audience in the fore- 
noon. Please to follow me I ” This said, the gentleman 
slowly preceded the visitor, now and then stopping to 
exchange a friendly word with the various parties he 
passed in his progress ; for the urbanity which Warwick 
possessed himself, his policy inculcated as a duty on all 
who served him. A small door at the other extremity 
of the hall admitted into an ante-room, in which some 
half-score pages, the sons of knights and barons, were 
gathered round an old warrior, placed at their head as a 
sort of tutor, to instruct them in all knightly accomplish- 
ments ; and beckoning forth one of these youths from the 
ring, the earl’s chamberlain said, with a profound rever- 
ence — “ Will you be pleased, my young lord, to conduct 
your cousin. Master Marmaduke Nevile, to the earl’s 
presence.” The young gentleman eyed Marmaduke with 
a supercilious glance. 

“ Marry 1 ” said he, pertly, “ if a man born in the north 
were to feed all his cousins, he would soon have a tail as 
long as my uncle, the stout earl’s. Come, sir cousin, 
this way.” 

And without tarrying even to give Nevile information 

of the name and quality of his new-found relation who 

was no less than Lord Montagu’s son, the sole male heir 
to the honors of that mighty family, though now learn- 
ing the apprenticeship of rivalry amongst his nude’s 
pages — the boy passed before Marmaduke with a 
saunter, that, had they been in plain Westmoreland, 
might have cost him a ciilf from the stout hand of the 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


165 


indignant elder cousin. He raised the tapestry at one 
end of the room, and ascending a short flight of broad 
stairs, knocked gently on the panels of an arched door, 
sunk deep in the walls. 

“ Enter ! ’’ said a clear, loud voice, and the next 
moment Marmaduke was in the presence of the king- 
maker. 

He heard his guide pronounce his name, and saw him 
smile maliciously at the momentary embarrassment the 
young man displayed, as the boy passed by Marmaduke, 
and vanished. The Earl of Warwick was seated near a 
door that opened upon an inner court, or rather garden, 
which gave communication to the river. The chambei 
was painted in the style of Henry III., with huge figures 
representing the battle of Hastings, or rather, for there 
were many separate pieces, the conquest of Saxon 
England. Over each head, to enlighten the ignorant, 
the artist had taken the precaution to insert a label, which 
told the name and the subject. The ceiling was groined, 
vaulted, and emblazoned with the richest gilding and 
colors. The chimney-piece (a modern ornament) rose to 
the roof, and represented in bold reliefs, gilt and deco- 
rated, -the signing of Magna Charta. The floor was 
strewed thick with dried rushes and odorous herbs ; the 
furniture was scanty, but rich. The low-backed chairs, 
of which there were but four, carved in ebony, had 
cushions of velvet with fringes of massive gold. A small 
cupboard, or beaufet, covered with carpetz de cuir (car- 
pets of gilt and painted leather), of great price, held 


166 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


various quaint and curious ornaments of plate inwrought 
with precious stones ; and besides this — a singular con- 
trast — on a plain Gothic table lay the helmet, the 
gauntlets, and the battle-axe of the master. Warwick 
himself, seated before a large cumbrous desk, was writing 
— but slowly and with pain — and he lifted his finger as 
the Nevile approached, in token of his wish to conclude 
a task probably little congenial to his tastes. But Mar- 
maduke was grateful for the moments afforded him to 
recover his self-possession, and to examine his kinsman. 

The earl was in the lusty vigor of his age. His hair, 
of the deepest black, was worn short, as if in disdain of 
the effeminate fashions of the day, and fretted bare from 
the temples, by the constant and early friction of his 
helmet, gave to a forehead naturally lofty yet more 
majestic appearance of expanse and height. His com- 
plexion, though dark and sunburnt, glowed with rich 
health. The beard was closely shaven, and left in all its 
remarkable beauty the contour of the oval face and 
strong jaw — strong as if clasped in iron. The features 
were marked and aquiline, as was common to those of 
Norman blood. The form spare, but of prodigious 
width and depth of chest, the more apparent from the 
fashion of the short surcoat, which was thrown back, 
and left in broad expanse a placard, not of holiday 
velvet and satins, but of steel polished as a mirror, and 
Inlaid with gold. And now, as concluding his task, the 
earl rose and motioned Marmaduke to a stool by his 
Bide, his great stature, which from the length of bis 


THE LAST OF THE BAEOIJS. 167 

limbs, was not so observable when he sat, actually startled 
his guest. Tall as Marmaduke was himself, the earl 
towered* above him — with his high, majestic, smooth, 
un wrinkled forehead — like some Paladin of the rhyme 
of poet or romancer; and, perhaps, not only in this 
masculine advantage, but in the rare and harmonious 
combination of colossal strength with graceful lightness, 
a more splendid union of all the outward qualities we 
are inclined to give to the heroes of old, never dazzled 
the eye, or impressed the fancy. But even this effect of 
mere person was subordinate to that which this eminent 
nobleman created — upon his inferiors, at least — by a 
manner so void of all arrogance, yet of all condescension, 
so simple, open, cordial, and herolike, that Marmaduke 
Nevile, peculiarly alive to external impressions, and sub- 
dued and fascinated by the earPs first word, and that 
word was “Welcome I” dropped on his knee, and kiss- 
ing the hand extended to him, said — “Noble kinsman, 
in thy service, and for thy sake, let me live and die I ” 
Had the young man been prepared by the subtlest 
master of court-craft for this interview, so important to 
his fortunes, he could not have advanced a hundredth 
part so far with the great earl, as he did by that sudden, 
frank burst of genuine emotion ; for Warwick was ex- 

* The faded portrait of Richard Nevile, Earl of Warwick, in the 
Rous Roll, preserved at the Herald’s College, does justice, at least, 
to the height and majesty of his stature. The portrait of Edward 
IV. is the only one in that long series which at all rivals the stately 
proportions of the King-make'* 


168 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

tremely sensitive to the admiration he excited — vain or 

proud of it it matters not which — grateful as a child 

for love, and inexorable as a woman for slight or insult : 
in rude ages, one sex has often the qualities of the other. 

“ Thou hast thy father’s warm heart and hasty thought, 
Marmaduke,” said Warwick, raising him; “and now he 
is gone where, we trust, brave men, shrived of their sins, 
look down upon us. Who should be thy friend but Richard 
Nevile? So — so — yes — let me look at thee. Ha! 
stout Guy’s honest face, every line of it ; but to the girls, 
perhaps, comelier, for wanting a scar or two. Never 
blush — thou shalt win the scars yet. Sa thou hast a 
letter from thy father ? ’’ 

“It is here, my lord.” 

“And why,” said the earl, cutting the silk with his 
dagger — “ why hast thou so long hung back from pre- 
senting it? But I need not ask thee. These uncivil 
times have made kith and kin doubt worse of each other 
than thy delay did of me. Sir Guy’s mark, sure eno’ ! 
Brave old man I I loved him the better, for that, like me, 
the sword was more meet than the pen for his bold 
hand.” Here Warwick scanned, with some slowness, the 
lines dictated by the dead to the prie’^t ; and when he 
had done, he laid the letter respectfully on his desk, and 
bowing his head over it, muttered to himself — it might 
be an Ave for the deceased. “Well,” he said, reseating 
himself, and again motioning Marmaduke to follow his 
example — “thy father was, in sooth, to blame for the 
side he took in the Wars. What son of the Norman 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 169 

could bow knee or vale plume to that shadow of a king 

— Henry of Windsor? — and, for his bloody wife, she 
knew no more of an Englishman’s pith and pride than I 
know of the rhymes and roundels of old Renh, her father. 
Guy Nevile — good Guy — many a day in my boyhood 
did he teach me how to bear my lance at the crest, and 
direct my sword at the mail-joints. He was cunning at 
fence — thy worshipful father — but I was ever a bad 
scholar; and my dull arm, to this day, hopes more from 
its strength than its craft.” 

“I have heard it said, noble earl, that the stoutest 
hand can scarcely lift your battle-axe.” 

“Fables I romaunt!” answered the earl, smiling; 
“there it, lies — go and lift it.” 

Marmaduke went to the table, and, though with some 
difficulty, raised and swung this formidable weapon. 

“By my halidame, well swung, cousin mine ! Its use 
depends not on the strength, but the practice. Why, 
look you now — there is the boy Richard of Gloucester, 
who comes not up to thy shoulder, and by dint of custom 
each day can wield mace or axe with as much ease as a 
jester doth his lathe-sword. Ah 1 trust me, Marmaduke 

— the York House is a princely one; and if we must 
have a king, we barons, by stout St. George, let no 
meaner race ever furnish our lieges. But to thyself, 
Marmaduke — what are thy views and thy wishes ?” 

“To be one of thy following, noble Warwick.” 

“I thank and accept thee, young Nevile ; but thou 
hast beard that I am about to leave England, and in the 
I. — 15 


no 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


mean time thy youth would run danger without a guide.’’ 
The earl paused a moment, and resumed. “ My brother 
of Montagu showed thee cold countenance ; but a word 
from me will win thee his grace and favor. What sayest 
thou — wilt thou be one of his gentlemen ? If so, I will 
tell thee the qualities a man must have; — a discreet 
tongue, a quick eye, the last fashion in hood and shoe- 
bobbins, a perfect seat on thy horse, a light touch for 

the gittern, a voice for a love-song, and ” 

“ I have none of these, save the horsemanship, gracious 
my lord ; and if thou wilt^not receive me thyself, I will 
not burden my Lord of Montagu and Northumberland.” 

“ Hot and quick ! No I John of Montagu would not 
suit thee, nor thou him. But how to provide for thee 
till my return, I know not.” 

“ Dare I not hope, then, to make one of your embas- 
sage, noble earl?” 

Warwick bent his brows, and looked at him in surprise. 
“ Of our embassage I Why, thou art haughty, indeed ! 
Nay, and so a soldier’s son and a Nevile should be I I 
blame thee not ; but I could not make thee one of my 
train without creating a hundred enemies — to me (but 
that’s nothing) — and to thee, which were much. Knowest 
thou not that there is scarce a gentleman of my train 
below the state of a peer’s son, and that I have made, 
by refusals, malcontents eno’, as it is — yet, hold I there 
is ray learned brother, the Archbishop of York. Knowest 
thou Latin and the schools ? ” 

“ ’Fore Heaven, my lord,” said the Nevile, bluntly, J 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 171 

see already I had best go back to green Westmoreland, 
for I am as unfit for his grace the archbishop, as I am 
for my lord Montagu.” 

“Well, then,” said the earl, drily, “since thou hast 
not yet station enough for my train, nor glosing for 
Northumberland, nor wit and lore for the archbishop, I 
suppose, my poor youth, I must e’en make you only a 
gentleman about the king ! It is not a post so sure of 
quick rising and full gipsires as one about myself, or my 
brethren, but it will be less envied, and is good for thy 
first essay. How goes the clock ? Oh ! here is Nick 
Alwyn’s new horologe. He tells me that the English 
will soon rival the Dutch * in these baubles. The more 
the pity ! — our red-faced yeomen, alas, are fast sinking 
into lank-jawed mechanics ! We shall find the king in 
his garden within the next half-hour Thou shalt attend 
me.” 

Marmaduke expressed, with more feeling than elo- 
quence, the thanks he owed for an offer that, he was 
about to say, exceeded his hopes, but he had already, 
since his departure from Westmoreland, acquired sufficient 
wit to think twice of his words. And so eagerly, at that 
time, did the youth of the nobility contend for the honor 


* Clockwork appears to have been introduced into England in 
the reign of Edward III., when three Dutch horologers were invited 
over from Delft. They must soon have passed into common use, 
for Chaucer thus familiarly speaks of them : — 

“Full sickerer was his crowing in his loge, 

Than is a clock or any abbey orloge.” 


1*72 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

of posts about the person of Warwick, and even of his 
brotners, and so strong was the belief that the earPs 
power to make or to mar fortune was all-paramount in 
England, that even a place in the king’s household was 
considered an inferior appointment to that which made 
Warwick the immediate patron and protector. This was 
more especially the case amongst the more haughty and 
ancient gentry, since the favour shown by Edward to the 
relations of his wife, and his own indifference to the rank 
and birth of his associates. Warwick had therefore 
spoken with truth when he expressed a comparative pity 
for the youth, whom he could not better provide for than 
by a place about the court of his sovereign I 

The earl then drew from Marmaduke some account of 
his early training, his dependence on his brother, his ad^ 
ventures at the archery- ground, his misadventure with 
the robbers, and even his sojourn with Warner — though 
Marmaduke was discreetly silent as to the very existence 
of Sibyll. The earl, in the mean while, walked to and 
fro the chamber with a light, careless stride, every 
moment pausing to laugh at the frank simplicity of his 
kinsman, or to throw in some shrewd remark, which he 
cast purposely in the rough Westmoreland dialect; for 
no man ever attains to the popularity that rejoiced or 
accursed the Earl of Warwick, without a tendency to 
broad and familiar humor, without a certain commonplace 
of character in its shallower and more every-day proper- 
ties. This charm — always great in the great War- 

wick possessed to perfection ; and in him — such was his 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 1T3 

native and unaffected majesty of bearing, and such the 
splendor that surrounded his name — it never seemed 
coarse or unfamiliar, but “ everything he did became him 
best.’’ Marmaduke had just brought his narrative to a 
conclusion, when, after a slight tap at the door, which 
Warwick did not hear, two fair young forms bounded 
joyously in, and, not seeing the stranger, threw them- 
selves upon Warwick’s breast with the caressing famili- 
arity of infancy 

“Ah, father,” said the elder of these two girls, as 
Warwick’s hand smoothed her hair fondly, “you prom- 
ised you would take us in your barge to see the sports 
on the river, and now it will be too late.” 

“ Make your peace with your young cousins here,” 
said the earl, turning to Marmaduke ; “ you will cost 
them an hour’s joyaunce. This is my eldest daughter, 
Isabel; and this soft-eyed, pale-cheeked damozel — too 
loyal for a lea/ of the red rose — is the Lady Anne.” 

The too girls had started from their father’s arms at 
the first address to Marmaduke, and their countenances 
had relapsed from their caressing and childlike expres- 
ion, into all the stately demureness with which they had 
been brought up to regard a stranger. Howbeit, this 
reserve, to which he was accustomed, awed Marmaduke 
less than the alternate gayety and sadness of the wilder 
Sibyll, and he addressed them with all the gallantry to 
the exercise of which he had been reared ; concluding 
his compliments with a declaration that he would rather 
^‘orego lli(j advantage proflered him by the earl’s favor 
15 * 


174 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

with the king, than foster one obnoxious and ungracious 
memory in damozels so fair and honoured. 

A haughty smile flitted for a moment over the proud 
young face of Isabel Nevile ; but the softer Anne blushed, 
and drew bashfully behind her sister. 

As yet these girls, born for the highest and fated to 
the most wretched fortunes, were in all the bloom of 
earliest youth ; but the difference between their charac- 
ters might be already observable in their mien and 
countenance. Isabel, of tall and commanding stature, 
had some resemblance to her father, in her aquiline fea- 
tures, rich, dark hair, and the lustrous brilliancy of her 
eyes ; while Anne, less striking, yet not less lovely, of 
smaller size and slighter proportions, bore in her pale, 
clear face, her dove-like eyes, and her gentle brow, an 
expression of yielding meekness not unmixed with melan- 
choly, which, conjoined with an exquisite symmetry of 
features, could not fail of exciting interest where her 
sister commanded admiration. Not a word, however, 
from either did Marmaduke abstract in return for his 
courtesies, nor did either he or the earl seem to expect 
it ; for the latter, seating himself and drawing Anne on 
his knee, while Isabella walked with stately grace to- 
wards the table that bore her father’s warlike accoutre- 
ments, and played, as it were, unconsciously with the 
black plume on his black burgonet, said to Nevile 

“Well, thou hast seen enough of the Lancastrian rap- 
trils to make thee true to the Yorkists. I would ] 
could say as much for the king himself, who is already 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


175 


crowding the court with that venomous faction, in honor 
of Dame Elizabeth Gray — born Mistress Woodville, and 
now Queen of England. Ha ! my proud Isabel, thou 
wouldst have better filled the throne that thy father 
built ! ” 

And at these words a proud flash broke from the 
earl’s dark eyes, betraying even to Marmaduke the 
secret of perhaps his earliest alienation from Edward I Y. 

Isabella pouted her rich lip, but said nothing. “ As 
for thee, Anne,” continued the earl, “ it is a pity that 
monks cannot marry — thou wouldst have suited some 
sober priest better than a mailed knight. ’Fore George, 
I would not ask thee to buckle my baldrick when the 
war-steeds were snorting, but I would trust Isabel with 
the links of my hauberk.” 

“Hay, father,” said the low timid voice of Anne, “if 
thou wert going to danger, I could be brave in all that 
could guard tliee 1 ” 

“Why, that’s my girl — kiss me ! Thou hast a look 
of thy mother now — so thou hast ! and I will not chide 
thee the next time I hear thee muttering soft treason, in 
pity of Henry of Windsor.” 

“ Is he not to be pitied ? — Crown, wife, son, and Earl 
Warwick’s stout arm — lost — lost!” 

“ No ! ” said Isabel, suddenly ; “ no, sweet sister Anne, 
and fie on thee for the words 1 He lost all, because he 
had neither the hand of a knight nor the heart of a man 1 
For the rest — Margaret of Anjou, or her butchers, be- 
headed our fatlier’s father ! ” 


n6 the last of the barons. 

“And may God and St. George forget me, when T 
forget those grey and gory hairs ! ” exclaimed the earl ; 
and, putting away the Lady Anne somewhat roughly, he 
made a stride across the room, and stood by his hearth 
And yet Edward, the son of Richard of York, who fell 
by my father’s side — he forgets — ^he forgives I And the 
minions of Rivers the Lancastrian tread the heels of 
Richard of Warwick I” 

At this unexpected turn in the conversation, peculiarly 
unwelcome, as it may be supposed, to the son of one who 
had fought on the Lancastrian side, in the very battle 
referred to, Marmaduke felt somewhat uneasy, and, turn- 
ing to the Lady Anne, he said, with the gravity of 
wounded pride, “I owe more to my lord, your father, 
than I even wist of — how much he must have overlooked 
to ” 

‘‘Not sol” interrupted Warwick, who overheard him 
— “not so ; thou wrongest me ! Thy father was shocked 
at those butcheries — thy father recoiled from that 
accursed standard — thy father was of a stock ancient and 
noble as my own i But, these Woodvilles I — tush I — 
my passion overmasters me. We will go to the king — 
it is time.” 

Warwick here rung the hand-bell on his table, and on 
the entrance of his attendant gentleman, bade him see 
that the barge was in readiness ; then, beckoning to his 
kinsman, and with a nod to his daughters, he caught up 
his plumed cap, and passed at once into the garden. 

“ Anne,” said Isabel, wlien the two girls were alotie, 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 171 

‘ thou hast vexed my father, and what marvel ? If the 
Lancastrians can be pitied, the Earl of Warwick must be 
condemned I ” 

“Unkind!” said Anne, shedding tears; “I can pity 
woe and mischance, without blaming those whose hard 
duty it might be to achieve them.” 

“ In good sooth, cannot 1 1 Thou wouldst pity and 
pardon till thou leftst no distinction between foemen and 
friend — liefe and loathing. Be it mine, like my great 
father, to love and to hate!” 

“ Yet why art thou so attached to the White Rose ? ” 
said Anne, stung, if not to malice, at least to archness. 
“ Thou knowest my father’s nearest wish was that his 
eldest daughter might be betrothed to King Edward. 
Dost thou not pay good for evil when thou seest no ex- 
cellence out of the House of York''” 

“ Saucy Anne,” answered Isabel, with a half smile, 
“ I am not raught by thy shafts, for I was a child for the 
nurses, when King Edward sought a wife for his love. 
But were I chafed — as I may be vain enough to know 
myself — whom should I blame ? — not the king, but the 
Lancastrian who witched him ! ” 

'She paused a moment, and, looking away, added in a 
low tone — “Didst thou hear, sister Anne, if the Duke 
of Clarence visited my father the forenoon ? ” 

“Ah! Isabel — Isabel!” 

“Ah ! sister Anne — sister Anne ! Wilt thou know all 
my secrets ere I know them myself? ” — and Isabel, with 


M 


178 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


something of her father^s playfulness, put her hand to 
Anne’s laughing lips. 

Meanwhile Warwick, after walking musingly a few 
moments along the garden, which was formed by plots 
of sward, bordered with fruit-trees, and white rose trees 
not yet in blossom, turned to his silent kinsman, and said 
— “ Forgive me, cousin mine, my mannerless burst against 
thy brave father’s faction ; but when thou hast been a 
short while at court, thou wilt see where the sore is. 
Certes, I love this king ! ” Here his dark face lighted 
up. “ Love him as a king, — ay, and as a son I And 
who would not love him ; brave as his sword, gallant, 
and winning, and gracious as the noonday in summer ? 
Besides, I placed him on his throne — I honor myself in 
him I ” 

The earl’s stature dilated as he spoke the last sentence, 
and his hand rested on his dagger hilt. He resumed, 
with the same daring and incautious candour that stamped 
his dauntless soldier-like nature, “ God hath given me no 
son. Isabel of Warwick had been a mate for William 
the Norman ; and my grandson, if heir to his grandsire’s 
soul, should have ruled from the throne of England over 
the realms of Charlemagne ! But it hath pleased Him, 
whom the Christian knight alone bows to without shame, 
to order otherwise. So be it. I forgot my just preten- 
sions— forgot my blood, and counselled the king to 
strengthen his throne with the alliance of Louis XL 
He rejected the Princess Bona of Savoy, to marry widow. 
Elizabeth Grey — I sorrowed for his sake, and forgave 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 179 

the slight to my counsels. At his prayer I followed the 
train of his queen, and hushed the proud hearts of our 
barons to obeisance. But since then, this Dame Wood- 
ville, whom I queened, if her husband mated, must dis- 
pute this roiaulme with mine and me — a Nevile now-a- 
days, must vail his plume to a Woodville I And not the 
great barons whom it will suit Edward’s policy to win 
from the Lancastrians — not the Exeters and the Somer- 
sets — but the craven varlets, and lackeys, and dross of 
the camp — false alike to Henry and to Edward — are to 
be fondled into lordships and dandled into power. Young 
man I am speaking hotly — Richard Nevile never lies nor 
conceals. But I am speaking to a kinsman, am I not ? 
Thou hearest — thou wilt not repeat?” 

“ Sooner would I pluck forth my tongue by the roots. 

“ Enough I ” returned the earl, with a pleased smile. 
“ When I come from France, I will speak more to thee. 
Meanwhile be courteous to all men — servile to none. 
Now to the king.” 

So speaking, he shook back his surcoat, drew his cap 
over his brow, and passed to the broad stairs, at the foot 
of which fifty rowers, with their badges on their shoulders, 
waited in the huge barge, gilt richly at prow and stern, 
and with an awning of silk, wrought with the earl’s arras 
and cognizance. As they pushed off, six musicians, 
placed towards the helm, began a slow and half eastern 
march, which, doubtless, some crusader of the Temple 
i‘iad brought from the cymbals and trumps of Palestine. 


180 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS 


CHAPTER II. 

King Edward the Fourth. 

The Tower of London, more consecrated to associa- 
tions of gloom and blood than those of gayety and splen- 
dor, was, nevertheless, during the reign of Edward lY. 
the seat of a gallant and gorgeous court. That king, 
from the first to the last so dear to the people of London, 
made it his principal residence when in his metropolis ; 
and its ancient halls and towers were then the scene of 
many a bra^vl and galliard. As Warwick’s barge now 
approached its huge w'alls, rinsing from the river, there 
was much that might either animate or awe, according 
to the mood of the spectator. The king’s barge, with 
many lesser craft, reserved for the use of the courtiers, 
gay with awnings and streamers, and painting and gild- 
ing, lay below the w^harfs, not far from the gate of St. 
Thomas, now called the Traitor’s Gate. On the walk 
raised above the battlemented wall of the inner ward, not 
only paced the sentries, but there dames and knights 
were inhaling the noonday breezes, and the gleam of 
their rich dresses of cloth of gold glanced upon the eye 
at frequent intervals from tower to tower. Over the 
vast round turret, behind the Traitor’s Gate, now called 
“ The Bloody Tower,” floated cheerily in the light wind, 
the royal banner. Near the Lion’s Tower, two or three 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


181 


of the keepers of the menagerie, in the king’s livery, 
were leading forth, by a strong chain, t^ie huge white 
bear that made one of the boasts of the collection, and 
was an especial favorite with the king and his brother 
Richard. The sheriffs of London were bound to find 
this grisly minion his chain and his cord, when he deigned 
to amuse himself with bathing or “fishing” in the river ; 
and several boats, filled with gape-mouthed passengers, 
lay near the wharf, to witness the diversions of Bruin. 
These folks set up a loud shout of — “ A Warwick ! — a 
Warwick I” “The stout earl, and God bless him!” as 
the gorgeous barge shot towards the fortress. The earl 
acknowledged their greeting by vailing his plumed cap, 
and passing the keepers with a merry allusion to their 
care of his own badge, and a friendly compliment to the 
grunting bear, he stepped ashore, followed by his kins- 
man. Now, however, he paused a moment, and a more 
thoughtful shade passed over his countenance, as, glanc- 
ing his eye carelessly aloft towards the standard of King 
Edward, he caught sight of the casement in the neighbor- 
ing tower, of the very room in which the sovereign of 
his youth, Henry the Sixth, was a prisoner, almost within 
hearing of the revels of his successor ; then, with a quick 
stride, he hurried on through the vast court, and, passing 
tlie White Tower, gained the royal lodge. Here, in the 
great hall, he left his companion, amidst a group of 
squires and gentlemen, to whom he formally presented 
'.he Nevile as his friend and kinsman, and was ushered 
Dy the deputy-chamberlain (with an apology for the 

r. — 16 


182 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


absence of his chief, the Lord Hastings, who had gone 
abroad to fly Jiis falcon), into the small garden, where 
Edward was idling away the interval between the noon 
and evening meals — repasts to which already the young 
king inclined with that intemperate zest and ardor which 
he carried into all his pleasures, and which finally de- 
stroyed the handsomest person, and embruted one of the 
most vigorous intellects of the age. 

The garden, if bare of flowers, supplied their place by 
the various and brilliant-coloured garbs of the living 
beauties assembled on its straight walks and smooth 
sward. Under one of those graceful cloisters, which 
were the taste of the day, and had been recently built, 
and gaily decorated, the earl was stopped in his path by 
a group of ladies playing at closheys (ninepins) of ivory 
and one of these fair dames, who excelled the rest in her 
skill, had just bowled down the central or crowned pin — 
the king of the closheys. This lady, no less a person 
than Elizabeth, the Queen of England, was then in her 
thirty-sixth year— ten years older than her lord— but the 
peculiar fairness and delicacy of her complexion, still pre- 
served to her beauty the aspect and bloom of youth. 
From a lofty head-gear, embroidered with fleur-de-lis, 
round which wreathed a light diadem of pearls, her hair 
of the pale yellow, considered then the perfection of 
beauty, flowed so straight and so shining down her 
shoulders, almost to the knees, that it seemed like a 

* Narrative of Louis of Bruges, Lord Grauthuse. Edited by Sir 
F. Madden, Archaeologia, 1836. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 188 

mantle of gold. The baudekin stripes (blue and gold) 
of her tunic, attested her royalty. The blue court-pie of 
satin was bordered with ermine, and the sleeves, fitting 
close to an arm of exquisite contour, shone with seed- 
pearls. He'r features were straight and regular, yet 
would have been insipid, but for an expression rather of 
cunning than intellect ; — and the high arch of her eye- 
brows, with a slight curve downward of a mouth other- 
wise beautiful, did not improve the expression, by an ad- 
dition of something supercilious and contemptuous, rather 
than haughty or majestic. 

“My lord of Warwick,” said Elizabeth, pointing to 
the fallen closhey, “what would my enemies say if they 
heard I had toppled down the king ? ” 

“ They would content themselves with asking which of 
your grace’s brothers you would place in his stead,” 
answered the hardy earl, unable to restrain the sarcasm. 

The queen blushed, and glanced round her ladies with 
an eye which never looked direct or straight upon its 
object, but wandered sidelong with a furtive and stealthy 
expression, that did much to obtain for her the popular 
character of falseness and self-seeking. Her displeasure 
was yet more increased by observing the ill-concealed 
smile which the taunt had called forth. 

“Nay, my lord,” she said, after a short pause, “we 
value the peace of our roiaulme too much for so high an 
ambition. Were we to make a brother even the prince 
of the closheys, we should disappoint the hopes of a 
Ncvile.” 


184 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

The eari disdained pursuing the war of words, and 
answering, coldly — “The Neviles are more famous for 
making ingrates than asking favors. I leave your high- 
ness to the closheys” — turned away, and strode towards 
the king, who at the opposite end of the garden, was re- 
clining on a bench beside a lady, in whose ear, to judge 
by her downcast and blushing cheek, he was breathing 
no unwelcome whispers. 

“ Mort-Dieu ! ” muttered the earl, who was singularly 
exempt, himself, from the amorous follies of the day, and 
eyed them with so much contempt that it often obscured 
his natural downright penetration into character, and 
never more than when it led him afterwards to underrate 
the talents of Edward lY. — “ Mort-Dieu ! if, an hour be- 
fore the battle of Touton, some wizard had shown me in 
his glass this glimpse of the gardens of the Tower, that 
giglet for a queen, and that squire of dames for a king, 
I had not slain my black destrier (poor Malech !), that I 
might conquer or die for Edward Earl of March ! ” 

“But seel” said the lady, looking up from the enam- 
ored and conquering eyes of the king; “art thou not 
ashamed, my lord the grim earl comes to chide thee 
for thy faithlessness to thy queen, whom he loves so well.^^ 

“ Pasque-Dieu I as my cousin Louis of France says or 
swears,” answered the king, with an evident petulance in 
his altered voice — “I would that Warwick could be 
only worn with one’s armor I I would as lief try to kiss 
through my visor as hear him talk of glory and Touton, 
and King John and poor Edward II., because I am not 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


185 


ulways in mail. Go ! leave us, sweet bonnibel ! — we 
must brave the bear alone 1 ” 

The lady inclined her head, drew her hood round her 
face, and striding into the contrary path from that in 
which Warwick was slowly striding, gained the group 
round the queen, whose apparent freedom from jealousy, 
the consequence of cold affections and prudent calcula- 
tion, made one principal cause of the empire she held 
over the powerful mind, but the indolent temper, of the 
gay and facile Edward. 

The king rose as Warwick now approached him ; and 
the appearance of these two eminent persons was in 
singular contrast. Warwick, though richly and even 
gorgeously attired — nay, with all the care which in that 
age was considered the imperative duty a man of station 
and birth owed to himself, held in lofty disdain whatever 
vagary of custom tended to cripple the movements or 
womanise the man. No loose-flowing robes — no shoon 
half a yard long — no flaunting tawdiness of fringe and 
aiglet, characterized the appearance of the baron, who, 
even in peace, gave his dress a half-martial fashion. 

' But Edward, who in common with all the princes of 
the House of York carried dress to a passion, had not 
only re-introduced many of the most effeminate modes in 
vogue under William the Red King, but added to them 
whatever could tend to impart an almost oriental charac- 
ter to the old Norman garb. His gown (a womanly 
garment which had greatly superseded, with men of the 
nighest rank, not only the mantle but the surcoat) flowed 
16 * 


186 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

to bis heels, trimmed with ermine, and broidered with 
large flowers of crimson wrought upon cloth of gold. 
Over this he wore a tippet of ermine, and a collar or 
necklace of uncut jewels set in filagree gold ; the nether 
limbs were, it is true, clad in the more manly fashion of 
tight-fitting hosen, but the folds of the gown, as the day 
was somewhat fresh, were drawn around so as to conceal 
the only part of the dress which really betokened the 
male sex. To add to this unwarlike attire, Edward’s 
locks, of a rich golden color, and perfuming the whole 
air with odors, flowed not in curls, but straight to his 
shoulders, and the cheek of the fairest lady in his court 
might have seemed less fair beside the dazzling clearness 
of a complexion, at once radiant with health and delicate 
with youth. Yet, in spite of all this effeminacy, the ap- 
pearance of Edward lY. was not effeminate. From this 
it was preserved, not only by a stature little less com- 
manding than that of Warwick himself, and of great 
strength and breadth of shoulder, but also by features, 
beautiful indeed, but pre-eminently masculine, — large 
and bold in their outline, and evincing by their expression 
all the gallantry and daring characteristic of the hottest 
soldier, next to Warwick, and, without any exception, 
the ablest captain, of the age. 

“And welcome — a merry welcome, dear Warwick, and 
cousin mine,” said Edward, as Warwick slightly bent his 
proud knee to his king ; “ your brother. Lord Montagu, 
has bnt left us. Would that our court had the 
joyance for you as for him.” 


same 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. ISl 

Dear and honored my liege,” answered Warwick, his 
brow smoothing at once — for his affectionate though 
hasty and irritable nature were rarely proof against the 
kind voice and winning smile of his young sovereign — 
“ could I ever serve you at the court as I can with the 
people, you would not complain that John of Montagu 
was a better courtier than Richard of Warwick. But 
each to his calling. I depart to-morrow for Calais, and 
thence to King Louis. And, surely, never envoy or 
delegate had better chance to be welcome than one em- 
powered to treat of an alliance that will bestow on a 
prince, deserving, I trust, his fortunes, the sister of the 
bravest sovereign in Christian Europe.” 

“Now, out on thy flattery, my cousin ; though I must 
needs own I provoked it by my compliment of thy cour- 
tiership. But thou hast learned only half thy business, 
good Warwick; and it is well Margaret did not hear 
thee. Is not the prince of France more to be envied for 
winning a fair lady than having a fortunate soldier for 
his brother-in-law ? ” 

“My liege,” replied Warwick, smiling, “thou knowest 
I am a poor judge of a lady’s fair cheek, though indiffer- 
ently well skilled as to the valor of a warrior’s stout arm. 
Algates, the Lady Margaret is indeed worthy in her ex- 
cellent beauties to become the mother of brave men.” 

“ And that is all we can wring from thy stern lip, man 
of iron. Well, that must content us. But to more 
serious matters.” And the king, leaning his hand on 
the earl’s arm, and walking with him slowly to and fro 


188 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


the terrace, continued — “Knowest thou not, Warwick, 
that this French alliance, to which thou hast induced us, 
displeases sorely our good traders of London I 

“ Mort-dieu ! ’’ returned Warwick, bluntly ; “ and what 
business have the flat-caps with the marriage of a king’s 
sister ? Is it for them to breathe garlick on the alliances 
of Bourbons and Plantagenets ? Faugh! You have 
spoiled them, good my lord king — you have spoiled them 
by your condescensions. Henry TY. staled not his 
majesty to consultations with the mayor of his city. 
Henry Y. gave the knight-hood of the Bath to the 
heroes of Agincourt, not to the vendors of cloth and 
spices. ” 

“Ah, my poor knights of the Bath I ” said Edward, 
good-humoredly, “ wilt thou never let that sore scar 
quietly over? Ownest thou not that the men had their 
merits ? ” 

“ What the merits were, I wmet not,” answered the 
earl; — “unless, peradventure, their wives were comely 
and young ! ” 

“ Thou wrongest me, Warwick,” said the king, care- 
lessly ; “ Dame Cook was awry. Dame Philips a grand- 
mother, Dame Jocelyn had lost her front teeth, and 
Dame Waer saw seven ways at once I But thou for- 
gettest, man, the occasion of those honors — the eve 
before Elizabeth was crowned — and it was policy to 
make the city of London have a share in her honors. 
As to the rest,” pursued the king, earnestly and with 
dignity, “ I and my house have owed mucli to London 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 189 

When the peers of England, save thee and thy friends, 
stood aloof from my cause, London was ever loyal and 
true. Thou seest not, my poor Warwick, that these 
burgesses are growing up into power by the decline of 
the orders above them. And if the sword is the monarch’s 
appeal for his right, he must look to contented and 
honored industry for his buckler in peace. This is policy 
— policy, Warwick; and Louis XI. will tell thee the 
same truths, harsh though they grate in a warrior’s ear.” 

The earl bowed his haughty head, and answered 
shortly, but with a touching grace — “ Be it ever thine, 
noble king, to rule as it likes thee ; and mine to defend 
with my blood even what I approve not with my brain. 
But if thou doubtest the wisdom of this alliance, it is 
not too late yet. Let me dismiss my following, and 
cross not the seas. Unless thy heart is with the mar- 
riage, the ties I would form are threads and cobwebs.” 

“Nay,” returned Edward, irresolutely; “in these 
great state matters thy wit is elder than mine ; but men 
do say the Count of Charolois is a mighty lord, and the 
alliance with Burgundy will be more profitable to staple 
and mart.” 

“ Then, in God’s name, so conclude it ! ” said the earl, 
hastily, but with so dark a fire in his eyes, that Edward, 
who was observing him, changed countenance; — “only 
ask me not, my liege, to advance such a marriage. The 
Count of Charolois knows me as his foe — shame were 
mine did I shun to say where I love, where I hate. That 
proud dullard once slighted me when we met at his 


190 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


father^s court — and the wish next to my heart is to pay 
back my affront with my battle-axe. Give thy sister to 
the heir of Burgundy, and forgive me if I depart to my 
castle of Middleham.” 

Edward, stung by the sharpness of this reply, was 
about to answer as became his majesty of king, when 
Warwick more deliberately resumed — “Yet think well, 
Henry of Windsor is thy prisoner, but his cause lives in 
Margaret and his son. There is but one power in 
Europe that can threaten thee with aid to the Lancas- 
trians, that power is France. Make Louis thy friend 
and ally, and thou givest peace to thy life and thy 
lineage — make Louis thy foe, and count on plots, and 
stratagems, and treason — uneasy days and sleepless 
nights. Already thou hast lost one occasion to secure 
that wiliest and most restless of princes, in rejecting the 
hand of the Princess Bona. Happily, this loss can now 
be retrieved. But alliance with Burgundy is war with 
France — war more deadly because Louis is a man who 
declares it not — a war carried on by intrigue and bribe, 
by spies and minions, till some disaffection ripens the 
hour when young Edward of Lancaster shall land on 

thy coasts, with the Oriflamme and the Red Rose with 

French soldiers and English malcontents. Wouldst thou 
look to Burgundy for help ? — Burgundy will have enough 
to guard its own frontiers from the gripe of Louis the 
Sleepless. Edward, my king, my pupil in arms — 
Edward, my loved, my honored liege, forgive Richard 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


191 


Nevile his bluntness, and let not his faults stand in bar 
of his counsels.” 

“You are right, as you are ever — safeguard of 
England, and pillar of my state,” said the king, frankly, 
and pressing the arm he still held. “ Go to S’rance and 
settle all as thou wilt.” 

Warwick bent low and kissed the hand of his sove- 
reign. “And,” said he, with a slight, but a sad smile 

— “ when I am gone, my liege will not repent, will not 
misthink me, will not listen to my foes, nor suffer mer- 
chant and mayor to sigh him back to the mechanics of 
Flanders ? ” 

“Warwick, thou deemest ill of thy king’s kingliness.” 

“Not of thy kingliness, but that same gracious quality 
of yielding to counsel which bows this proud nature to 
submission — often makes me fear for thy firmness, when 
thy will is won through thy heart. And now, good my 
liege, forgive me one sentence more. Heaven forfend 
that I should stand in the way of thy princely favors. 
A king’s countenance is a sun that should shine on all. 
But bethink thee well, the barons of England are a 
stubborn and haughty race ; chafe not thy most puissant 
peers by too cold a neglect of their past services, and 
too lavish a largess to new men.” 

- “ Thou aimest at Elizabeth’s kin,” interrupted Edward, 
withdrawing his hand from his minister’s arm — “and I 
tell thee, once for all times, that I would rather sink to 
mine earldom of March, with a subject’s right to honor 
where he loves than wear crown and wield sceptre 


192 the last of the barons. 

without a king’s unquestioned prerogative to ennoble 
the line and blood of one he has deemed worthy of his 
throne. As for the barons, with whose wrath thou 
threatenest me, I banish them not. — If they go in gloom 
from ray ^^ 3 urt — why, let them chafe themselves sleek 
again 1 ” 

“King Edward,” said Warwick, moodily — “tried 
services merit not this contempt. It is not as the kith 
of the queen that I regret to see lands and honors 
lavished upon men, rooted so newly to the soil that the 
first blast of the war-trump will scatter their greenness 
to the winds. But what sorrows me is to mark those 
who have fought against thee, preferred to the stout 
loyalty that braved block and field for thy cause. Look 
round thy court; where are the men of bloody York 
and victorious Touton ? — unrequited, sullen in their 
strongholds — begirt with their yeomen and retainers. 
Thou standest — thou, the heir of York — almost alone 
(save where the Neviles — whom one day thy court will 
seek also to disgrace and discard — vex their old com- 
rades in arms by their defection) — thou standest almost 
alone among the favorites and minions of Lancaster. Is 
there no danger in proving to men that to have served 
thee is discredit — to have warred against thee is guerdon 
and grace?” 

“Enough of this, cousin,” replied the king, with an 
effort which preserved his firmness. “ On this head we 
cannot agree. Take what else thou wilt of royalty — 
make treaties and contract marriages — establish peace 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


193 


or proclaim war ; but trench not on my sweetest pre- 
rogative to give and to forgive. And now, wilt thou 
tarry and sup with us ? The ladies grow impatient of a 
commune that detains from their eyes the stateliest knight 
since the Round Table was chopped into fire- wood.’’ 

“No, my liege,” said Warwick, whom flattery of this 
sort rather angered than soothed — “ I have much yet 
to prepare. I leave your highness to fairer homage and 
more witching counsels than mine.” So saying, he kissed 
the king’s hand, and was retiring, when he remembered 
his kinsman, whose humble interests, in the midst of 
more exciting topics, he had hitherto forgotten, and 
added, “ May I crave, since you are so merciful to the 
Lancastrians, one grace for my namesake — a Nevile, 
whose father repented the side he espoused — a son of 
Sir Guy of Arsdale.” 

“Ah,” said the king, smiling maliciously, “it pleaseth 
us much to find that it is easier to the warm heart of our 
cousin Warwick to preach sententiaries of sternness to 
his king, than to enforce the same by his own practice I” 

“ You misthink me, sire. I ask not that Marmaduke 
Nevile should supplant his superiors and elders — I ask 
not that he should be made baron and peer — I ask only 
that, as a young gentleman, who hath taken no part him- 
self in the wars, and whose father repented his error, 
your grace should strengthen your following by an ancient 
name and a faithful servant. But I should have remem- 
bered me that his name of Nevile would liave procured 
him a taunt in the place of advancement.” 

1. — n N 


194 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

“Saw man ever so froward a temper?’’ cried Edward, 
not without reason. “ Why, Warwick, thou art as shrew- 
ish to a jest as a woman to advice. Thy kinsman’s for- 
tunes shall be my care. Thou sayest thou hast enemies 
— I weet not who they be. But to show what I think 
of them, I make thy namesake and client a gentleman of 
my chamber. When Warwick is false to Edward, let 
him think that Warwick’s kinsman wears a dagger within 
reach of the king’s heart day and night.” 

This speech was made with so noble and touching a 
kindness of voice and manner, that the earl, thoroughly 
subdued, looked at his sovereign with moistened eyes, 
and only trusting himself to say — “Edward, thou art 
king, knight, gentleman, and soldier, and I verily trow 
that I love thee best when my petulant zeal makes me 
anger thee most,” — turned away with evident emotion, 
and passing the queen and her ladies with a lowlier 
homage than that with which he had before greeted them, 
left the garden. Edward’s eye followed him, musingly. 
The frank expression of his face vanished, and, with the 
deep breath of a man who is throwing a weight from his 
heart, he muttered — 

“ He loves me — yes — but will suffer no one else to 
love me I This must end some day. I am weary of the 
bondage.” And sauntering towards the ladies, he listened 
in silence, but not apparently in displeasure, to his queen’s 
sharp sayings on the imperious mood and irritable temper 
of the iron-handed builder of his throne. 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


195 


CHAPTER III. 

The Ante-Chamber. 

As Warwick passed the door that led from the garden, 
he brushed by a young man, the baudekin stripes of 
whose vest announced his relationship to the king, and 
who, though far less majestic than Edward, possessed 
sufficient of family likeness to pass for a very handsome 
and comely person. But his countenance wanted the 
open and fearless expression which gave that of the king 
so masculine and heroic a character. The features were 
smaller, and less clearly cut, and to a physiognomical 
observer there was much that was weak and irresolute 
in the light blue eyes and the smiling lips, which never 
closed firmly, over the teeth. He did not wear the long 
gown then so much in vogue, but his light figure was 
displayed to advantage jby a vest, fitting it exactly, 
descending half-way down the thigh, and trimmed at the 
border and the collar with ermine. The sleeves of the 
doublet were slit, so as to show the white lawn beneath, 
and adorned with aiglets and knots of gold. Over the 
left arm hung a rich jacket of furs and velvet, something 
like that adopted by the modern hussar. His hat or 
cap was high and tiara-like, with a single white plume, 
and the ribbon of the garter bound his knee. Though 


196 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

the dress of this personage was thus far less effeminate 
than Edward’s, the effect of his appearance was infinitely 
more so — partly, perhaps, from a less muscular frame, 
and partly from his extreme youth. For George, Duke 
of Clarence, was then, though initiated not only in the 
gaieties, but all the intrigues of the court, only in his 
eighteenth year. Laying his hand, every finger of which 
sparkled with jewels, on the earl’s shoulder — Hold I ” 
said the young prince, in a whisper, “ a word in thy ear, 
noble Warwick.” 

The earl, who, next to Edward, loved Clarence the 
most of his princely house, and who always found the 
latter as docile as the other (when humor or affection 
seized him) was intractable, relaxed into a familiar smile 
at the duke’s greeting, and suffered the young prince to 
draw him aside from the groups of courtiers with whom 
the chamber was filled, to the leaning places (as they 
were called) of a large mullion window. In the mean- 
while, as they thus conferred, the courtiers interchanged 
looks, and many an eye of fear and hate w'as directed 
towards the stately form of the earl. For these courtiers 
were composed principally of the kindred or friends of 
the queen, and though they dared not openly evince the 
malice with which they retorted Warwick’s lofty scorn, 
and undisguised resentment at their new fortunes, they 
ceased not to hope for his speedy humiliation and dis 
grace, recking little what storm might rend the empire, 
so that it uprooted the giant oak, which still, in some 
measure, shaded their sunlight, and checked their growtli 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 197 

True, however, that amongst these were mingled, though 
rarely, men of a hardier stamp and nobler birth — some 
few of the veteran friends of the king’s great father — 
and these, keeping sternly and loftily aloof from the herd, 
regarded Warwick with the same almost reverential, and 
yet affectionate admiration which he inspired amongst 
the yeomen, peasants, and mechanics ; for in that grow- 
ing, but quiet struggle of the burgesses, as it will often 
happen in more civilized times, the great Aristocracy 
and the Populace were much united in affection, though 
with very different objects ; and the Middle and Trading 
Class, with whom the earPs desire for French alliances 
and disdain of commerce had much weakened his popu- 
larity, alone shared not the enthusiasm of their country- 
men for the lion-hearted minister. 

Nevertheless, it must here be owned, that the rise of 
Elizabeth’s kindred introduced a far more intellectual, 
accomplished, and literary race into court favor than had 
for many generations flourished in so uncongenial a soil : 
and in this ante-chamber feud, the pride of education and 
mind retaliated with juster sarcasm the pride of birth 
and sinews. 

Amongst those opposed to the earl, and fit in all 
qualities to be the head of the new movement — if the ex- 
pressive modern word be allowed us — stood at that 
moment in the very centre of the chamber, Anthony 
Woodville — in right of the rich heiress he had married, 
the Lord Scales. As when some hostile and formidable 
foe enters the meads where the flock grazes, the gazing 
11 * 


198 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


herd gather slowly round their leader, — so grouped the 
queen’s faction slowly, and by degrees, round this ac- 
complished nobleman, at the prolonged sojourn of War- 
wick. 

“ Gramercy I ” said the Lord Scales, in a somew'hat 
affected intonation of voice, “ the conjunction of the bear 
and the young lion is a parlous omen, for the which I 
could much desire we had a wise astrologer’s reading.” 

“It is said,” observed one of the courtiers, “that the 
Duke of Clarence much affects either the lands or the 
person of the Lady Isabel.” 

“ A passably fair damozel,” returned Anthony, “ though 
a thought or so too marked and high in her lineaments, 
and wholly unlettered, no doubt ; which were a pity, for 
George of Clarence hath some pretty taste in the arts 
and poesies. But as Oceleve hath it — 

‘ Gold, silver, jewel, cloth, beddyng, array,’ 

would make gentle George amorous of a worse-featured 
face than high-nosed Isabel ; ‘ strange to spell or rede,’ 
as I would wager my best destrier to a tailor’s hobby, 
the damozel surely is.” 

“Notest thou yon gaudy popinjay?” whispered the 
Lord of St. John to one of his Toutoii comrades, as, 
leaning against the wall, they overheard the sarcasms of 
Anthony, and the laugh of the courtiers, who glassed 
their faces and moods to his ; “ Is the time so out of 
joint that Master Anthony Woodville can vent his 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


199 


Bcurrile japes on the heiress of Salisbury and Warwick, 
in the king’s chamber ? ” 

“ And prate of spelling and reading, as if they were 
the cardinal virtues,” returned his sullen companion. 
“ By my halidame, I have two fair daughters at home, 
who will lack husbands, I trow, for they can only spin 
and be chaste — two maidenly gifts out of bloom with the 
White Rose.” 

In the mean while, unwitting, or contemptuous of the 
attention they excited, Warwick and Clarence continued 
yet more earnestly to confer. 

“ No, George, no,” said the earl, who, as the descendant 
of John of Gaunt, and of kin to the king’s blood, main- 
tained in private, a father’s familiarity with the princes 
of York, though on state occasions, and when in the 
hearing of others, he sedulously marked his deference for 
their rank — “no, George, calm and steady thy hot 
mettle, for thy brother’s and England’s sake. I grieve 
as much as thou to hear that the queen does not spare 
even thee in her froward and unwomanly peevishness 
But there is a glamour in this, believe me, that must melt 
away, soon or late, and our kingly Edward recover his 
senses.” 

“Glamour I” said Clarence; “thinkest thou indeed, 
that her mother, Jacquetta, has bewitched the king? 
One word of thy belief in such spells, spread abroad 
amongst the people, would soon raise the same storm 
that blew Eleanor Cobham from Duke Humphrey’s 
Ded, along London streets in her penance-shift ” 


200 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS 


“ Troth, said the earl, indifferently, “ I leave such 
grave questions as these to prelate and priest ; the gla- 
mour I spoke of is that of a fair face over a wanton 
heart ; and Edward is not so steady a lover, that this 
should never wear out I ” 

“ It amates me much, noble cousin, that thou leavest 
the court in this juncture. The queen’s heart is with 
Burgundy — the city’s hate is with France — and when 
once thou art gone, I fear that the king will be teased 
into mating my sister with the Count of Charolois.” 

“ Ho ! ” exclaimed Warwick, with an oath so loud that 
it rang through the chamber, and startled every ear that 
heard it. Then, perceiving his indiscretion, he lowered 
his tone into a deep and hollow whisper, and griped the 
prince’s arm, almost fiercely, as he spoke. 

“Could Edward so dishonor my embassy — so palter 
and juggle with my faith — so flout me in the eyes of 
Christendom, I would — I would — ” he paused, and re- 
laxed his hold of the duke, and added, with an altered 
voice — “I would leave his wife and his lemans, and yon 
things of silk, whom he makes peers {that is easy), but 
cannot make men — to guard his throne from the grandson 
of Henry V. But thy fears, thy zeal, thy love for me, 
dearest prince and cousin, make thee misthink Edward’s 
kingly honor and knightly faith. I go, with the sure 
knowledge that by alliance with France I shut the house 
of Lancaster from all hope of this roiaulrne.” 

“ Hadst thou not better, at least, see ray sister Marga- 
ret — she has a high spirit, and she thinks thou mightst, 


THE LAST OP THE BASONS. 201 

at least, woo her assent, and tell her of the good gifts of 
her lord to be ! ” 

“Are the daughters of York spoilt to this by the 
manners and guise of a court, in which beshrew me if I 
well know which the woman and whom the man ? Is it 
not enough to give peace to broad England — root to 
her brother’s stem ? Is it not enough to wed the son 
of a king — the descendant of Charlemagne and St. Louis ? 
Must I go bonnet in hand and simper forth, the sleek 
personals of the choice of her kith and house ; swear the 
bridegroom’s side-locks are as long as King Edward’s, 
and that he bows with the grace of Master Anthony 
Woodville? Tell her this thyself, gentle Clarence, if 
thou wilt : all Warwick could say would but anger her 
ear, if she be the maid thou bespeakest her.” 

The Duke of Clarence hesitated a moment, and then, 
coloring slightly, said — “ If, then, the daughter’s hand be 
the gift of her kith alone, shall I have thy favor when 
the Lady Isabel ” 

“ George,” interrupted Warwick, with a fond and pa- 
ternal smile, “ when we have made England safe, there is 
nothing the son of Richard of York can ask of Warwick 
in vain. Alas ! ” he added, mournfully, “ thy father and 
mine were united in the same murtherous death, and I 
think they will smile down on us from their seats in 
heaven, when a happier generation cements that bloody 
union with a marriage bond I ” 

Without waiting for further parlance, the earl turned 
suddenly away, threw his cap on his towering head, and 


202 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


strode right through the centre of the whispering cour- 
tiers, who shrunk, louting low, from his haughty path, 
to break into a hubbub of angry exclamations, or sar- 
castic jests, at his unmannerly bearing, as his black plume 
disappeared in the arch of the vaulted door. 

While such the scene in the interior chambers of the 
palace, Marmaduke, with the frank simpleness which be- 
longed to his youth and training, had already won much 
favor and popularity, and he was laughing loud with a 
knot of young men by the shovel-board, when Warwick 
re-entered. The earl, though so disliked by the courtiers 
more immediately about the person of the king, was still 
the favorite of the less elevated knights and gentry who 
formed the subordinate 'household and retainers ; and 
with these, indeed, his manner, so proud and arrogant to 
his foes and rivals, relapsed at once into the ease of the 
manly and idolized chief. He was pleased to see the way 
made by his young namesake, and lifting his cap, as he 
nodded to the group, and leant his arm upon Marma- 
duke’s shoulder, he said — “ Thanks, and hearty thanks, 
to you, knights and gentles, for your courteous reception 
of an old friend’s young son. I have our king’s most 
gracious permission to see him enrolled one of the court 
ye grace. Ah! Master Falconer, and how does thy 
worthy uncle ? — braver knight never trod. — What young 
gentleman is yonder ? — a new face and a manly one ; by 
your favor, present him ! — the son of a Savile ! Sir, on 
my return, be not the only Savile who shuns our table 
of Warwick Court. Master Dacres, comraend me to the 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


203 


lady, your mother ; she and I have danced many a mea- 
sure together in the old time — we all live again in our 
children. Good den to you, sirs. Marmaduke, .follow 
me to the office — you lodge in the palace. You are gen- 
tleman to the most gracious, and, if Warwick lives, to 
the most puissant of Europe’s sovereigns. I shall see 
Montagu at home ; he shall instruct thee in thy duties, 
and requite thee for all discourtesies on the archery- 
ground,” 


BOOK THIRD. 


IN WHICH THE HISTORY PASSES PROM THE KING’S COURT 
TO THE student’s CELL, AND RELATES THE PERILS 
THAT BEFEL A PHILOSOPHER FOR MEDDLING WITH THE 
AFFAIRS OP THE WORLD. 


CHAPTER I. 

The Solitary Sage and the Solitary Maid. 

While such the entrance of Marmaduke Nevile into 
a court, that if far less intellectual and refined than those 
of later days, was yet more calculated to dazzle the 
fancy, to sharpen the wit, and to charm the senses ; for 
round the throne of Edward lY. chivalry was magnifi- 
cent, intrigue restless, and pleasure ever on the wing 

Sibyll had ample leisure, in her solitary home, to muse 
over the incidents that had preceded the departure of 
the young guest. Though she had rejected Marmaduke’s 
proffered love, his tone, so suddenly altered — his abrupt, 
broken words and confusion — his farewell, so soon suc- 
ceeding his passionate declaration — could not fail to 
wound that pride of woman which never sleeps till 

(204) 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


205 


modesty is gone. But this made the least cause of the 
profound humiliation which bowed down her spirit. The 
meaning taunt conveyed in the rhyme of the tymbesteres 
pierced her to the quick ; the calm indifferent smile of 
the stranger, as he regarded her ; the beauty of the dame 
he attended, woke mingled and contrary feelings, but 
those of jealousy were, perhaps, the keenest : and in the 
midst of all she started to ask herself — if indeed she had 
suffered her vain thoughts to dwell too tenderly upon one 
from whom the vast inequalities of human life must divide 
her ever more. — What to her was his indifference ? 
Nothing — yet had she given worlds to banish that care- 
less smile from her remembrance. 

Shrinking, at last, from the tyranny of thoughts till 
of late unknown, her eye rested upon the gipsire which 
Alwyn had sent her by the old servant. The sight 
restored to her the holy recollection of her father, the 
sweet joy of having ministered to his wants. She put 
up the little treasure, intending to devote it all to Warner ; 
and after bathing her heavy eyes, that no sorrow of hers 
might afflict the student, she passed, with a listless step, 
into her father’s chamber. 

There is, to the quick and mercurial spirits of the 
young, something of marvellous and preternatural in that 
life within life, which the strong passion of science and 
genius forms and feeds — that passion so much stronger 
than love, and so much more self-dependent — which asks 
no sympathy, leans on no kindred heart — which lives alone 
'n its works and fancies, like a god amidst his creations. 

I. — 18 


206 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


The philosopher, too, had experienced a great affliction 
since they met last. In the pride of his heart, he had 
designed to show Marmaduke the mystic operations of 
his model, which had seemed that morning to open into 
life ; and when the young man was gone, and he made 
the experiment alone, alas I he found that new progress 
but involved him in new difficulties. He had gained the 
first steps in the gigantic creation of modern days, and 
he was met by the obstacle that baffled so long the great 
modern sage. There was the cylinder — there the boiler ; 
yet, work as he would, the steam failed to keep the 
cylinder at work. And now, patiently as the spider re- 
weaves the broken web, his untiring ardor was bent upon 
constructing a new cylinder of other materials. “ Strange,’^ 
he said to himself, “that the heat of the mover aids not 
the movement ; and so, blundering near the truth, he 
labored on. 

Sibyll, meanwhile, seated herself abstractedly on a heap 
of fagots, piled in the corner, and seemed busy in framing 
characters on the dusty floor with the point of her tiny 
slipper. So fresh and fair and young she seemed, in that 
murky atmosphere, that strange scene, and beside that 
worn man, that it might have seemed to a poet as if the 
youngest of the Graces were come to visit Mulciber at 
his forge. 

The man pursued his work — the girl renewed her 
dreams — the dark evening hour gradually stealing over 
both. The silence was unbroken, for the forge and the 
model were now at rest, save by the grating of Adam’s 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 207 

file upon the metal, or by some ejaculation of compla- 
cency now and then vented by the enthusiast. So, apart 
from the many-noised, gaudy, babbling world without, 
even in the midst of that bloody, turbulent, and semi- 
barbarous time, went on (the one neglected and unknown, 
the other loathed and hated) the two movers of the all 
that continues the airy life of the Beautiful from age to 
age — the Woman’s dreaming Fancy, and the Man’s 
active Genius. 


CHAPTER II. 

Master Adam Warner grows a Miser, and behaves shamefully. 

For two or three days nothing disturbed the outwara 
monotony of the recluse’s household. Apparently all had 
settled back as before the advent of the young cavalier. 
But Sibyll’s voice was not heard singing, as of old, when 
she passed the stairs to her father’s room. She sat with 
him in his work no less frequently and regularly than 
before ; but her childish spirits no longer broke forth in 
idle talk or petulant movement, vexing the good man 
from his absorption and his toils. The little cares and 
anxieties, which had formerly made up so much of Sibyll’s 
day, by forethought ot provision for the morrow, were 
suspended ; for the money transmitted to her by Alwyn, 
in return for the emblazoned MSS. was sufficient to 
supply their modest wants for months to come. Adam, 


208 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


more and more engrossed in bis labors, did not appear 
to perceive the daintier plenty of his board, nor the pur- 
chase of some small comforts, unknown for years. He 
only said one morning — “It is strange, girl, that as that 
gathers in life (and he pointed to the model), it seems 
already to provide, to my phantasy, the luxuries it will 
one day give to us all in truth. Methought my very bed 
last night seemed wondrous easy, and the coverings were 
warmer, for I woke not with the cold ! ” 

“Ah I” thought the sweet daughter, smiling through 
moist eyes — “ while my cares can smooth thy barren path 
through life, why should I cark and pine ? ” 

Their solitude was now occasionally broken in the 
evenings by the visits of Nicholas Alwyn. The young 
goldsmith was himself not ignorant of the simpler mathe- 
matics : he had some talent for invention, and took plea- 
sure in the construction of horologes, though, properly 
speaking, not a part of his trade. His excuse for his 
visits was his wish to profit by Warner’s mechanical 
knowledge ; but the student was so wrapped in his own 
pursuits, that he gave but little instruction to his visitor. 
Nevertheless, Alwyn was satisfied, for he saw Sibyll. He 
saw her in the most attractive phase of her character, the 
loving, patient, devoted daughter ; and the view of her 
household virtues affected more and more his honest 
English heart. But, ever awkward and embarrassed, he 
gave no vent to his feelings. To Sibyll he spoke little, 
and with formal constraint ; and the girl, unconscious 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 209 

of her conquest, was little less indifferent to his visits 
than her abstracted father. 

But all at once Adam woke to a sense of the change 
that had taken place — all at once he caught scent of 
gold, for his works were brought to a pause for want of 
finer and more costly materials than the coins in his own 
possession (the remnant of Marmaduke’s gift) enabled 
him to purchase. He had stolen out at dusk unknown 
to Sibyll, and lavished the whole upon the model, but in 
vain ! The model in itself was, indeed, completed ; his 
invention had mastered the difficulty that it had encoun- 
tered. But Adam had complicated the contrivance by 
adding to it experimental proofs of the agency it was 
intended to exercise. It was necessary in that age, if 
he were to convince others, to show more than the prin- 
ciple of his engine ; he must show also something of its 
effects; turn a mill without wind or water, or set in mo- 
tion some mimic vehicle without other force than that 
the contrivance itself supplied. And here, at every step, 
new obstacles arose. It was the misfortune to science in 
those days, not only that all books and mathematical 
instruments were enormously dear, but that the students, 
still struggling into light, through the glorious delusions 
of alchemy and mysticism — imagined that, even in simple 
practical operations, there were peculiar virtues in virgin 
gold and certain precious stones. A link in the process 
upon which Adam was engaged failed him ; his ingenuity 
was baffled, his work stood still ; and in poring again 
and again over the learned MSS. — alas! now lost, in 
18 * 


0 


210 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


which certain German doctors had sought to explain the 
pregnant hints of Roger Bacon, he found it inculcated 
that the axle of a certain wheel must be composed of a 
diamond. Now in truth, it so happened that Adam’s 
contrivance, which (even without the appliances which 
were added in illustration of the theory) was infinitely 
more complicated than modern research has found neces- 
sary, did not even require the wheel in question, much 
less the absent diamond; it happened, also, that his un- 
derstanding, which, though so obtuse in common life, 
was in these matters astonishingly clear, could not trace 
any mathematical operations by which the diamond axle 
would in the least tjorrect the difficulty that had suddenly 
started up ; and yet the accursed diamond began to 
haunt him — the German authority was so positive on the 
point, and that authority had in many respects been 
accurate. Nor was this all — the diamond was to be no 
vulgar diamond : it was to be endowed, by talismanic 
skill, with certain properties and virtues ; it was to be 
for a certain number of hours exposed to the rays of the 
full moon ; it was to be washed in a primitive and won- 
drous elixir, the making of which consumed no little of 
the finest gold. This diamond was to be to the machine 
what the soul is to the body — a glorious, all-pervading, 
mysterious principle of activity and life. Such were the 
dreams that obscured the cradle of infant science ! And 
Adam, with all his reasoning powers, his lore in the hard 
truths of mathematics, was but one of the giant children 
of the dawn. The magnificent phrases and solemn pro- 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


211 


raises of the mystic Germans got firm hold of his fancy. 
Night and day, waking or sleeping, the diamond, basking 
in the silence of the full moon, sparkled before his eyes — 
meanwhile all was at a stand. In the very last steps of 
his discovery he was arrested. Then suddenly looking 
round for vulgar moneys to purchase the precious gem, 
and the materials for the soluble elixir, he saw that 
MONEY had been at work around him — that he hkd been 
sleeping softly and faring sumptuously. He was seized 
with a divine rage. How had Sibyll dared to secrete 
from him his hoard ? how presumed to wade upon the 
base body what might have so profited the eternal mind ? 
In his relentless ardor, in his sublime devotion and loyalty 
to his abstract idea, there was a devouring cruelty, of 
which this meek and gentle scholar was wholly uncon- 
scious. The grim iron model, like a Moloch, eat up all 
things — health, life, love ; and its jaws now opened for 
nis child. He goes from his bed — it was daybreak — he 
threw on his dressing-robe — he strode into his daughter’s 
room — the grey twilight came through the comfortless, 
curtainless casement, deep-sunk into the wall. Adam 
did not pause to notice that the poor child, though she 
had provoked his anger, byrefitting his dismal chamber, 
had spent nothing in giving a less rugged frown to her 
own. 

The scanty worm-worn furniture, the wretched pallet, 
the poor attire folded decently beside— nothing save that 
inexpressible purity and cleanliness which, in the lowliest 
hovel, a pure and maiden mind gathers round it— nothing 


212 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


to distinguish the room of her whose childhood had 
passed in courts from the hut of the meanest daughter 
of drudgery and toil! No — he who had lavished the 
fortunes of his father and his child into the grave of his 
idea — no — he saw nothing of this self-forgetful penury — 
the diamond danced before him ! He approached the 
bed — and oh 1 the contrast of that dreary room and 
peasant pallet, to the delicate, pure, enchanting loveliness 
of the sleeping inmate. The scanty covering left par- 
tially exposed the snow-white neck and rounded shoulder ; 
the face was pillowed upon the arm, in an infantine 
grace ; the face was slightly flushed, and the fresh red 
lips parted into a smile — for in her sleep the virgin 
dreamed — a happy dream 1 It was a sight to have 
touched a father’s heart, and have stopped his footstep, 
and hushed his breath into prayer. And call not Adam 
nard — unnatural — that he was not then, as men far 
more harsh than he — for the father at that moment was 
not in his breast — the human man was gone — he himself, 
like his model, was a machine of iron I — his life was his 
one idea ! ” 

“Wake, child, wake!” he said, in a loud but hollow 
voice. “ Where is the gold thou hast hidden from me ? 
Wake — confess ! ” 

Roused from her gracious dreams thus savagely, Sibyll 
started, and saw the eager, darkened face of her father. 
Its expression was peculiar and undefinable, for it was 
not threatening, angry, stern ; there was a vacancy in the 
eyes, a strain in the features, and yet a wild intense ani- 
mation lighting and pervading all — it was as the face 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 213 

of one walking in his sleep ; and, at the first confusion 
of waking, Sibjll thought indeed that such was her 
father’s state. But the impatience with which he shook 
the arm he grasped, and repeated, as he opened convul- 
sively his other hand, “The gold, Sibyll — the gold I 
Why didst thou hide it from me?” speedily convinced 
her that her father’s mind was under the influence of the 
prevailing malady that made all its weakness and all its 
strength. 

“ My poor father 1 ” she s.aid, pityingly, “ wilt thou not 
leave thyself the means whereby to keep strength and 
health for thine high hopes. Ah 1 father, thy Sibyll only 
hoarded her poor gains for thee ! ” 

“ The gold I” said Adam, mechanically, but in a softer 
voice — “ all — all thou hast ? How didst thou get it — 
how ? ” 

“ By the labors of these hands. Ah ! do not frown 
on me ! ” 

“ Thou — the child of knightly fathers — thou labor I ” 
said Adam, an instinct of his former state of gentle-born 
and high-hearted youth flashing from his eyes. “ It was 
wrong in thee I ” 

“Host thou not labor too?” 

“Ay, but for the world. Well — the gold!” 

Sibyll rose, and modestly throwing over her form the 
old mantle which lay on the pallet, passed to a corner 
of the room, and opening a chest, took from it the gip- 
sire and held it out to her father. 

“ If it please thee, dear and honored sir, so be it ; and 
Heaven prosper it in thy hands!” 


21^ THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

Before Adam’s cluch could close on the gipsire, a rude 
hand was laid on his shoulder, the gipsire was snatched 
from Sibyll, and the gaunt half-clad form of Old Madge 
interposed between the two. 

“ Eh, sir I ” she said, in her shrill, cracked tone, “ I 
thought, when I heard your door open, and your step 
hurrying down, you were after no good deeds. Eie, 
master, fie I I have clung to you when all reviled, and 
when starvation within and foul words without made all 
my hire ; for I ever thought you a good and mild man, 
though little better than stark wode. But, augh I to rob 
your poor child thus — to leave her to starve and pine I 
We old folks are used to it. Look round — look round ; 
I remember this chamber, when ye first came to your 
father’s hall. Saints of heaven I There stood the brave 
bed all rustling with damask of silk ; on those stone walls 
once hung fine arras of the Flemings — a marriage gift to 
my lady from Queen Margaret, and a mighty show to 
see, and good for the soul’s comforts, with Bible stories 
wrought on it. Eh, sir 1 don’t you call to mind your 
namesake. Master Adam, in his brave scarlet hosen, and 
Madam Eve, in her bonny blue kirtle and laced court* 
pie; and now — now look round, I say, and see what 
you have brought your child to I ” 

“ Hush I hush ! Madge, hush 1 ” cried Sibyll, while 
Adam gazed in evident perturbation and awakening 
shame at the intruder, turning his eyes round the room 
as she spoke, and heaving from time to time short, deep 
sighs. 

“But I will not hush,” pursued the old woman; “I 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


215 


will say my say, for I love ye both, and I loved my poor 
mistress, who is dead and gone. Ah, sir, groan I it does 
you good. And now when this sweet damsel is growing 
lip, now when you should think of saving a marriage 
dower for her (for no marriage where no pot boils), do 
you rend from her the little that she has drudged to 
gain ! — She ! — Oh, out on your heart ? and for what — 
for what, sir ? For the neighbors to set fire to your 

father’s house, and the little ones to ” 

“ Forbear, woman ! ” cried Adam, in a voice of thunder, 
“forbear! Leave us!” And he waved his hand as he 
spoke, with so unexpected a majesty that Madge was 
awed into sudden silence, and, darting a look of com- 
passion at Sibyll, she hobbled from the room. Adam 
stood motionless an instant ; but when he felt his child’s 
soft arms round his neck — when he heard her voice 
struggling against tears, praying him not to heed the 
foolish words of the old servant — to take — to take all 
— that it would be easy to gain more — the ice of his 
philosophy melted at once — the man broke forth, and, 
clasping Sibyll to his heart, and kissing her cheek, her 
lips, her hands, he faltered out — “No! no! — forgive 
me! — forgive thy cruel father! Much thought has 
maddened me, I think — it has indeed! Poor child, 
poor Sibyll,” and he stroked her cheek gently, and with 
a movement of pathetic pity — “ poor child, thou art 
pale — and so slight and delicate ! And this chamber— 
and thy loneliness — and — ah ? — my life hath been a 
curse to thee, yet I meant to bequeath it a boon to all ! ” 
“ Father, dear father, speak not thus. You break my 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

heart. Here, here take the gold — or rather, for 

thou must not venture out to insult again, let me pur- 
chase with it what thou needest. Tell me, trust me ” 

“No I” exclaimed Adam, with that hollow energy by 
which a man resolves to impose restraint on himself ; “ I 
will not, for all that science ever achieved — I will not 
lay this shame on my soul : — spend this gold on thyself — 
trim this room — buy thee raiment — 'all that thou needest — 
I order — I command it ! And hark thee, if thou gettest 
more, hide it from me — hide it well — men’s desires are 
foul tempters I I never knew, in following wisdom, that 
I had a vice. I wake and find myself a miser and a 
robber ! ” 

And with these words he fled from the girl’s chamber, 
gained his own, and locked the door. 


CHAPTER III. 

. A Strange Visitor.— All Ages of the World breed World-Betters. 

SiBYLL, whose soft heart bled for her father, and who 
now reproached herself for having concealed from him 
her little hoard, began hastily to dress that she might 
seek him out, and soothe the painful feelings which the 
honest rudeness of Madge had aroused. But before her 
task was concluded, there pealed a loud knock at the 
outer door. She heard the old housekeeper’s quivering 
voice responding to a loud clear tone; and presently 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 211 

Madge herself ascended the stairs to Warner’s room, 
followed by a man whom Sibyll instantly recognized — ■ 
for he was not one easily to be forgotten — as their pro- 
tector from the assault of the mob. She drew back 
hastily as he passed her door, and in some wonder and 
alarm awaited the descent of Madge. That venerable 
personage having with some difficulty induced her master 
to open his door and admit the stranger, came straight 
into her young lady’s chamber. “Cheer up — cheer up, 
sweetheart,” said the old woman, “ I think better days 
will shine soon ; for the honest man I have admitted says 
he is but come to tell Master Warner something that will 
redound much to his profit. Oh ! he is a wonderful fellow, 
this same Robin ! You saw how he turned the cullions 
from burning the old house!” 

“ What ! you know this man, Madge ! What is he, 
and who ? ” 

Madge looked puzzled. “That is more than I can 
say, sweet mistress. But though he has been but some 
weeks in the neighborhood, they all hold him in high 
cpunt and esteem. For why — it is said he is a rich 
man and a kind one. He does a world of good to the 
poor.” 

While Sibyll listened to such explanations as Madge 
could give her, the stranger, who had carefully closed 
the door of the student’s chamber, after regarding Adam 
for a moment with silent but keen scrutiny, thus began 

“When last we met, Adam Warner, it was with 
satchells on our backs. Look well at me ! ” 

I. — 19 


218 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

“ Troch,” answered Adam, languidly, for he was still 
under the deep dejection that had followed the scene with 
Sibyll, “ I cannot call you to mind, nor seems it veritable 
that our school-days passed together, seeing that my hair 
is grey and men call me old ; but thou art in all the 
lustihood of this human life.” 

“Nathless,” returned the stranger, “there are but two 
years or so between thine age and mine. When thou 
wert poring over the crabbed text, and pattering Latin 
by the ell, dost thou not remember a lackgrace, good- 
for-naught, Robert Hilyard, who was always setting the 
school in an uproar, and was finally outlawed from that 
boy-world as he hath been since from the man’s world, 
for inciting the weak to resist the strong ? ” 

“Ah 1 ” exclaimed Adam, with a gleam of something 
like joy on his face ; “ art thou, indeed, that riotous, 
brawling, fighting, frank-hearted, bold fellow, Robert 
Hilyard? Hal ha! — those were merry days ! I have 

known none like them ” 

The old school-fellows shook hands heartily. 

“The world has not fared well with thee in person or 
pouch, I fear me, poor Adam,” said Hilyard ; “ thou 
canst scarcely have passed thy fiftieth year, and yet thy 
learned studies have given thee the weight of sixty; 
while I, though ever in toil and bustle, often wanting a 
meal, and even fearing the halter, am strong and hearty 
as when I shot my first fallow buck in the king’s forest, 
and kissed the forester’s pretty daughter. Yet, methinks, 
Adam, .if what I hear of thy tasks be true, thou and I 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


219 


have each been working for one end ; thou to make the 

world other than it is, and I to ” 

“ What ! hast thou, too, taken nourishment from the 
bitter milk of Philosophy — thou, fighting Bob?” 

“I know not whether it be called philosophy — but 
marry, Edward of York would call it rebellion ; they are 
much the same, for both war against rules established I ” 
returned Hilyard, with more depth of thought than his 
careless manner seemed to promise. He paused, and 
laying his broad brown hand on Warner’s shoulder, 
resumed — “Thou art poor, Adam I ” 

“Very poor — very — very I ” 

“Does thy philosophy disdain gold?” 

“What can philosophy achieve without it? She is a 
hungry dragon, and her very food is gold I ” 

“Wilt thou brave some danger — thou wert ever a 
fearless boy when thy blood was up, though so meek and 
gentle — wilt thou brave some danger for large reward ?” 

“ My life braves the scorn of men, the pinchings of 
famine, and, it may be, the stake and the fagot. Soldiers 
brave not the dangers that are braved by a wise man in 
an unwise age I ” 

“ Gramercy ! thou hast a hero’s calm aspect while thou 
speakest, and thy words move me I Listen I Thou were 
wont, when Henry of Windsor was King of England, to 
visit and confer with him on jearned matters. He is now 
a captive in the Tower; but his gaolers permit him still 
to receive the visits of pious monks and harmless scholars. 
I ask thee to pay him such a visit, and for this office I 


220 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

am empowered, by richer men than myself, to award thee 
the guerdon of twenty broad pieces of gold.” 

“ Twenty ! — A mine ! — A Tmolus I ” exclaimed Adam, 
in uncontrollable glee. “ Twenty ! — 0 true friend I — 
then my work will be born at last I ” 

“But bear me further, Adam, for I will not deceive 
thee ; the visit hath its peril ! Thou must first see if 
the mind of King Henry, for king he is, though the 
usurper wear his holy crown, be clear and healthful. 
Thou knowest he is subject to dark moods — ; suspension 
of man’s reason ; and if he be, as his friends hope, sane 
and right-judging, thou wilt give him certain papers, 
which, after his hand has signed them, thou wilt bring 
back to me. If in this thou succeedest, know that thou 
mayst restore the royalty of Lancaster to the purple and 
the throne ; that thou wilt have princes and earls for 
favorers and protectors to thy learned life ; that thy for- 
tunes and fame are made! Fail, be discovered — and 
Edward of York never spares I — Thy guerdon will be 
the nearest tree and the strongest rope I ” 

“ Robert,” said Adam, who had listened to this address 
with unusual attention, “ thou dealest with me plainly, 
and as man should deal with man. I know little of stra- 
tagem and polity, wars and kings ; and save that King 
Henry, though passing ignorant in the mathematics, and 
more given to alchemists than to solid seekers after truth, 
was once or twice gracious to me, I could have no choice, 
in these four walls, between an Edward and a Henry on 
the throne. But I have a king whose throne is in mine 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


221 


own breast, 9iid, alack, it taxeth me heavily, and with 
sore burdens.” 

“I comprehend,” said the visitor, glancing round the 
room — ‘"I comprehend — thou wantest money for thy 
books and instruments, and thy melancholic passion is 
thy sovereign. Thou wilt incur the risk ? ” 

“ I will,” said Adam. “ I would rather seek in the 
lion’s den for what I lack, than do what I well nigh did 
this day.” 

“What crime was that, poor scholar?” said Robin, 
smiling. 

“ My child worked for her bread, and my luxuries — I 
would have robbed her, old schoolfellow. Ha ! — ha ! — 
what is cord and gibbet to one so tempted ?” 

A tear stood in the bright gray eyes of the bluff 
visitor. 

“Ah ! Adam,” he said, sadly, “ only by the candle held 
in the skeleton hand of Poverty can man read his own 
dark heart. But thou. Workman of Knowledge, hast the 
same interest as the poor, who dig and delve. Though 
strange circumstance hath made me the servant and 
emissary of Margaret, think not that I am but the varlet 
of the great.” 

Hilyard paused a moment, and resumed — 

“ Thou knowest, peradventure, that my race dates from 
an elder date than these Norman nobles, who boast their 
rcbber-fathers. From the renowned Saxon Thane, who, 
free of hand and of cheer, won the name of Ilildegar- 
19 * 


222 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


dis,* our family took its rise. But under these Norman 
barons, we sank with the nation to which we belonged. Still 
were we called gentlemen, and still were dubbed knights. 
But, as I grew up to man’s estate, I felt myself more 
Saxon than gentleman, and, as one of a subject and 
vassal race, I w^ls a son of the Saxon people. My father, 
like thee, was a man of thought and bookcraft. I dare 
own to thee that he was a Lollard, and with the religion 
of those bold foes to priest-vice, goes a spirit that asks 
why the 'people should be evermore the spoil and prey 
of lords and kings. Early in my youth, my father, fearing 
rack and fagot in England, sought refuge in the Hans 
town of Lubeck. There I learned grave truths — how 
liberty can be won and guarded. Later in life I saw the 
republics of Italy, and I asked why they were so glorious 
in all the arts and craft of civil life, while- the braver men 
of France and England seemed as savages by the side 
of the Florentine burgess, nay, of the Lombard vine- 
dresser. I saw that, even when those republics fell a 
victim to some tyrant or podesta, their men still preserved 
rights and uttered thoughts which left them more free 
and more great than the Commons of England, after all 
their boasted wars. I came back to my native land and 
settled in the North, as my franklin ancestry before me. 
The broad lands of my forefathers had devolved on the 
elder line, and gave a knight’s fee to Sir Robert Hilyard, 

* Hildegardis, viz., old German, a person of noble or generous 
disposition. Wotton’s “ Baronetage, art. Hilyard, or Hilyard, of 
Pattrington, 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS, 


223 


who fell afterwards at Teuton for the Lancastrians. But 
I had won gold in the far countree, and I took farm and 
homestead near Lord Warwick’s tower of Middleham. 
The feud between Lancaster and York broke forth ; Earl 
Warwick summoned his retainers, myself amongst them, 
since I lived upon his land ; I sought* the great earl, and 
I told him boldly — him whom the Commons deemed a 
friend, and a foe to all malfaisance and abuse — I told 
him that the war he asked me to join seemed to me but a 
war of ambitious lords, and that I saw not how the Com- 
mons were to be bettered, let who would be king. The 
earl listened and deigned to reason ; and when he saw I 
was not convinced, he left me to my will ; for he is a 
noble chief, and I admired even his angry pride, when he 
said, ‘ Let no man fight for Warwick whose heart beats 
not in his cause.’ I lived afterwards to discharge my 
debt to the proud earl, and show him how even the lion 
may be meshed, and how even the mouse may gnaw the 
net. But to my own tragedy. So I quitted those parts, 
for I feared my own resolution near so great a man : ] 
made a new home not far from the city of York. So, 
Adam, when all the land around bristled with pike and 
gisarme, and while my own cousin and namesake, the 
head of my house, was winning laurels and wasting blood 
— I, thy quarrelsome fighting friend — lived at home in 
peace with my wife and child (for I was now married, 
and wife and child were dear to me), and tilled my lands. 
But in peace I was active and astir, for ray words inflamed 
the bosoms of laborers and peasants, and many of them, 


224 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


benighted as they were, thought with me. One day — I 
was absent from home, selling my grain in the marts of 
York — one day there entered the village a young cap- 
tain, a boy-chief, Edward Earl of March, beating for 
recruits. Dost thou heed me, Adam ? Well, man — well, 
the peasants stood aloof from tromp and banner, and 
they answered, to all the talk of hire and fame, ‘ Robin 
Hilyard tells us we have nothing to gain but blows — 
leave us to hew and to delve.’ Oh ! Adam, this boy — 
this chief — the Earl of March, now crowned King Ed- 
ward, made but one reply — ‘ This Robin Hilyard must 
be a wise man — show me his house.’ They pointed out 
the ricks, the barns, the homestead, and in five minutes 
all — were in flames. ‘ Tell the hilding, when he returns, 
that thus Edward of March, fair to friends and terrible 
to foes, rewards the coward who disaffects the men of 
Yorkshire to their chief.’ And by the blazing rafters, 
and the pale faces of the silent crowd, he rode on his 
way to battle and the throne I ” 

Hilyard paused, and the anguish of his countenance 
was terrible to behold. 

“I returned to find a heap of ashes — I returned to 

find my wife a maniac — I returned to find my child my 

— g^’eat God I — he had run to hide himself, in terror 
at the torches and the grim men — they had failed to dis- 
cover him, till, too late, his shrieks, amidst the crashing 
walls, burst on his mother’s ear ; — and the scorched, 
mangled, lifeless corpse, lay on that mother’s bosom !” 
Adam rose; his figure was transformed —not the 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 225 

stooping student, but the knight-descended man, seemed 
to tower in the murky chamber ; his hand felt at his side, 
as for a sword ; he stifled a curse, and Hilyard, in that 
suppressed low voice which evinces a strong mind in 
deep emotion, continued his tale. 

“ Blessed be the Divine Intercessor, the mother of the 
dead died too I Behold me, a lonely, ruined, wifeless, 
childless wretch ! I made all the world my foe ! The old 
love of liberty (alone left me) became a crime ; I plunged 
into the gloom of the forest, a robber-chief, sparing — 
no, never — never — never! — one York captain — one 
spurred knight — one belted lord! But the poor, my 
Saxon countrymen, they had suffered, and were safe ! 

“One dark twilight — thou hast heard the tale — every 
village minstrel sets it to his viol — a majestic woman — 
a hunted fugitive — crossed my path; she led a boy in 
her hand, a year or so younger than my murdered child. 
‘Friend!’ said the woman, fearlessly, ‘save the son of 
your king ; I am Margaret Queen of England ! ’ I saved 
them both. From that hour, the robber-chief, the 
Lollard’s son, became a queen’s friend. Here opened, 
at least, vengeance against the fell destroyer. Now see 
you why I seek you — why tempt you into danger? 
Pause if you will, for my passion heats my blood; — and 
all the kings since Saul, it may be, are not worth 
one scholar’s life ! And yet,” continued Hilyard, regain- 
ing his ordinary calm tone, “and yet, it seemeth to me, 
as I said at first, that all who labor have in this a com- 
mon cause and*interest witli the poor. Tliis woman- 


p 


226 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

king, though bloody man, with his wine-cups and hia 
harlots — this usurping York — his very existence flaunts 
the life of the sons of toil. In civil war and in broil, in 
strife that needs the arms of the people, the people shall 
get their own.” 

“ I will go,” said Adam, and he advanced to the door. 

Hilyard caught his arm. “Why, friend, thou hast not 
even the documents, and how wouldst thou get access to 
the prison ? Listen to me ; or,” added the conspirator, 
observing poor Adam’s abstracted air, “ or let me rather 
speak a word to thy fair daughter ; women have ready 
wit, and are the pioneers to the advance of men ! Adam I 
Adam! thou art dreaming!” — He shook the philoso- 
pher’s arm roughly. 

“I heed you,” said Warner, meekly. 

“The first thing required,” renewed Hilyard, “is a 
permit to see King Henry. This is obtained either from 
the Lord Worcester, governor of the Tower, a cruel man, 
who may deny it — or the Lord Hastings, Edward’s 
chamberlain, a humane and gentle one, who will readily 
grant it. Let not thy daughter know why thou wouldst 
visit Henry ; let her suppose it is solely to make report 
of his health to Margaret ; let her not know there is 
scheming or danger ; so, at least, her ignorance will 
secure her safety. But let her go to the lord chamber- 
lain, and obtain the order for a learned clerk to visit the 
learned prisoner — to — ha ! well thought of — this strange 
machine is, doubtless, the invention of which thy neigh- 
bors speak ; this shall make thy excuse ; thou wouldst 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 22T 

divert the prisoner with thy mechanical — comprehendest 
thou, Adam ? ” 

“Ah 1 King Henry will see the model, and when he is 
on the throne ” 

“ He will protect the scholar I ” interrupted Hilyard. 
“ Good I good I Wait here — I will confer with thy 
daughter. ” 

He gently pushed aside Adam, opened the door, and 
on descending the stairs, found Sibyl! by the large case- 
ment where she had stood with Marmaduke, and heard 
the rude stave of the tyrabesteres. 

The anxiety the visit of Hilyard had occasioned her 
was at once allayed, when he informed her that he had 
been her father’s school-mate, and desired to become his 
friend. And when he drew a moving picture of the ex- 
iled condition of Margaret and the young prince, and 
their natural desire to learn tidings of the health of the 
deposed king, her gentle heart, forgetting the haughty 
insolence with which her royal mistress had often wounded 
and chilled her childhood, felt all the generous and com- 
passionate sympathy the conspirator desired to awaken. 
“The occasion,” added Hilyard, “for learning the poor 
captive’s state now offers I He hath heard of your 
father’s labors ; he desires to learn their nature from his 
own lips. He is allowed to receive, by an order from 
King Edward’s chamberlain, the visits of those scholars 
in whose converse he was ever wont to delight. Wilt 
thou so far aid the charitable work as to seek the Lord 
Hastings, and crave the necessary licence? Thou seest 


228 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


that thy father has wayward and abstract moods; he 
might forget that Henry of Windsor is no longer king, 
and might give him that title in speaking to Lord Hast- 
ings — a slip of the tongue which the law styles treason.” 

“Certes,” said Sibyll, quickly, “if my father would 
seek the poor captive, I will be his messenger to my Lord 
Hastings. But, oh, sir ! as thou hast known my father’s 
boyhood, and as thou hopest for mercy in the last day, 
tempt to no danger one so guileless ! ” 

Hilyard winced as he interrupted her hastily — 

“ There is no danger if thou wilt obtain the licence. 
I will say more — a reward awaits him, that will not only 
banish his poverty but save his life.” 

“His life.” 

“ Ay I seest thou not, fair mistress, that Adam Warner 
is dying, not of the body’s hunger, but of the soul’s ? He 
craveth gold, that his toils may reap their guerdon. If 
that gold be denied, his toils will fret him to the 
grave ! ” 

“Alas I alas! — it is true.” 

“ That gold he shall honorably win I Nor is this all. 
Thou wilt see the Lord Hastings : he is less learned, per- 
haps, than Worcester — less dainty in accomplishments 
and gifts than Anthony Woodville, but his mind is pro- 
found and vast ; all men praise him, save the queen’s kin. 
He loves scholars ; he is mild to distress ; he laughs at 
the superstitions of the vulgar. Thou wilt see the Lord 
Hastings, and thou mayst interest him in thy father's 
genius and his fate 1 ” 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 229 

“ There is frankness in thy voice, and I will trust thee,” 
answered Sibyll. “When shall I seek this lord ?” 

“ This day, if thou wilt. He lodges at the Tower, ana 
gives access, it is said, to all who need his offices, or seek 
succor from his power.” 

“ This day, then, be it I ” answered Sibyll, calmly. 

Hilyard gazed at her’ countenance, rendered so noble 
in its youthful resignation — in its soft firmness of expres- 
sion, and muttering, “ Heaven prosper thee, maiden ; we 
shall meet to-morrow,” descended the stairs, and quitted 
the house. 

His heart smote him when he was in the street. “ If 
evil should come to this meek scholar — to that poor 
child’s father, it would be a sore sin to my soul. But no ; 
I will not think it. The saints will not suffer this bloody 
Edward to triumph long ; and in this vast chess-board 
of vengeance and great ends, we must move men to and 
fro, and harden our natures to the hazard of the game.” 

Sibyll sought her father ; his mind had flown back to 
the model. He was already living in the life that the 
promised gold would give to the dumb thought. True, 
that all the ingenious additions to the engine — additions 
that were to convince the reason and startle the fancy, 
were not yet complete (for want, of course, of the dia- 
mond bathed in moonbeams) — but still there was enough 
in the inventions already achieved to excite curiosity and 
obtain encouragement. So, with care and* diligence and 
sanguine hope, the philosopher prepared the grim model 
for exhibition to a man who had worn a crown, and might 
I. —20 


230 THE LAST or THE BARONS. 

wear again. But with that innocent and sad cunning 
which is so common with enthusiasts of one idea, the 
sublime dwellers of the narrow border between madness 
and inspiration, Adam, amidst his excitement, contrived 
to conceal from his daughter all glimpse of the danger he 
run, of the correspondence of which he was to be the 
medium, — or rather, may we think that he had forgotten 
both ! Not the stout Warwick himself, in the roar of 
battle, thought so little of peril to life and limb as that 
gentle student, in the reveries of his lonely closet ; and 
therefore, all unsuspicious, and seeing but diversion to 
Adam’s recent gloom of despair, an opening to all his 
bright prospects, Sibyll attired herself in her holiday 
garments, drew her wimple closely round her face, and 
summoning Madge to attend her, bent her way to the 
Tower. Near York House, within view of the Sanc- 
tuary and the Palace of Westminster, they took a boat, 
and arrived at the stairs of the Tower. 


CHAPTER IV 

Lord Hastings. 

William Lord Hastings was one of the most re- 
markable men of the age. Philip de Comines bears 
testimony to his high repute for wisdom and virtue. Born 
the son of a knight of ancient lineage but scanty lands, 
he bad risen, while yet in the prime of life, to a rank and 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 231 

an influence second, perhaps, only to the house of Nevile. 
Like Lord Montagu, he united in happy combination the 
talents of a soldier and a courtier. But as a statesman, 
— a schemer — a thinker — Montagu, with all his craft, 
was inferior to Hastings. In this, the latter had but two 
equals — viz., George, the youngest of the Nevile brothers, 
Archbishop of York ; and a boy, whose intellect was not 
yet fully developed, but in whom was already apparent 
to the observant, the dawn of a restless, fearless, calcu- 
lating, and subtle genius — that boy, whom the philoso- 
phers of Utrecht had taught to reason, whom the lessons 
of Warwick had trained to arms, was Richard, Duke of 
Gloucester, famous even now for his skill in the tilt-yard, 
and his ingenuity in the rhetoric of the schools. 

The manners of Lord Hastings had contributed to his 
fortunes. Despite the newness of his honors, even the 
haughtiest of the ancient nobles bore him no grudge, for 
his demeanor was at once modest and manly. He was 
peculiarly simple and unostentatious in his habits, and 
possessed that nameless charm which makes men popular 
with the lowly, and welcome to the great.* But in that 
day a certain mixture of vice was necessary to success ; 

* On Edward’s accession, so highly were the services of Hastings 
appreciated by the party, that not only the king, but many of the 
nobility, contributed to render his wealth equal to his new station, 
by grants of lands and moneys. Several years afterwards, when 
he went with Edward into France, no less than two lords, nine 
knights, fifty-eight squires, and twenty gentlemen, joined his train. 
— Dagdale’s “Baronage,” p. 683. Sharon Turner’s “History of 
England,” vol. iii. p. 380. 


232 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


and Hastings wounded no self-love by the assumption of 
unfashionable purism. He was regarded with small favor 
by the queen, who knew him as the companion of Edward 
in his pleasures, and at a later period accused him of 
enticing her faithless lord into unworthy affections. And 
certain it is, that he was foremost amongst the courtiers 
in those adventures which we call the excesses of gaiety 
and folly, though too often leading to Solomon’s wisdom 
and his sadness. But profligacy, with Hastings, had the 
excuse of ardent passions : he had loved deeply, and un- 
happily, in his earlier youth, and he gave into the dissi- 
pation of the time with the restless eagerness common to 
strong and active natures when the heart is not at ease ; 
and under all the light fascination of his converse, or the 
dissipation of his life, lurked the melancholic tempera- 
ment of a man worthy of nobler things. Nor was the 
courtly vice of the libertine the only drawback to the 
virtuous character assigned to Hastings by Comines. His 
experience of men had taught him something of the dis- 
dain of the cynic, and he scrupled not at serving his 
pleasures or his ambition by means which .his loftier na- 
ture could not excuse to his clear sense.* Still, however, 
the world, which had deteriorated, could not harden him. 
Eew persons so able acted so frequently from impulse ; 
the impulses were, for the most part, affectionate and 
generous, but then came the regrets of caution and ex- 

* See Comines, b. vi. for a curious anecdote of what Mr. Sharon 
Turner happily calls “the moral coquetry” of Hastings;— an anec- 
dote which reveals much of his character. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 23 ? 

perieiice ; and Hastings summoned his intellect to correct 
the niovement of his heart — in other words, reflection 
sought to undo what impulse had suggested. Though 
so successful a gallant, he had not acquired the ruthless 
egotism of the sensualist ; and his conduct to women 
often evinced the weakness of giddy youth, rather than 
the cold deliberation of profligate manhood. Thus in 
his veriest vices there was a spurious amiability — a seduc- 
tive charm ; while in the graver affairs of life, the intel- 
lectual susceptibility of his nature served but to quicken 
his penetration and stimulate his energies, and Hastingf* 
might have said, with one of his Italian contemporaries 
— “ That in subjection to the influences of women he hac 
learned the government of men.” In a word, his powers, 
to attract, and his capacities to command, may be guessed 
by this, — that Lord Hastings was the only man Richard 
III. seems to have loved, when Duke of Gloucester,* 
and the only man he seems to have feared, when resolved 
to be King of England. Hastings was alone in the 
apartments assigned to him in the Tower, when his page, 
with a peculiar smile, announced to him the visit of a 
young donzell, who would not impart her business to his 
attendants. 

The accomplished chamberlain looked up somewhat 
impatiently from the beautiful MS., enriched with the 
silver verse of Petrarch, which lay open on his table, and. 


* Sir Thomas More, “ lafe of Edward V.,” speaks of “the great 
’.ove” Richard bore to Hastings 

20 * 


234 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


after muttering to himself — “ It is only Edward to whom 
the face of a woman never is unwelcome,” bade the page 
admit the visitor. 

The damsel entered, and the door closed upon her. 

“ Be not alarmed, maiden,” said Hastings, touched by 
the downcast bend of the hooded countenance, and the 
unmistakable and timid modesty of his visitor’s bearing. 
“ What hast thou to say to me ? ” 

At the sound of his voice, Sibyll Warner started, and 
uttered a faint exclamation. The stranger of the pastime- 
ground was before her. Instinctively she drew the wim- 
ple yet more closely round her face, and laid her hand 
upon the bolt of the door as if in the impulse of retreat. 

The nobleman’s curiosity was roused. He looked again 
and earnestly on the form that seemed to shrink from 
his gaze ; then rising slowly, he advanced, and laid his 
hand on her arm ; — “ Donzell, I recognize thee,” he said, 
in a voice that sounded cold and stern — “ what service 
wouldst thou ask me to render thee ! Speak ! Nay I I 
pray thee, speak.” 

“Indeed, good my lord,” said Sibyll, conquering her 
confusion ; and, lifting her wimple, her dark blue eyes 
met those bent on her, with fearless truth and innocence, 
“ I knew not, and you will believe me — I knew not till 
this moment that I had such cause for gratitude to the 
Lord Hastings. I sought you but on the behalf of my 
father. Master Adam Warner, who would fain have the 
permission accorded to other scholars, to see the Lord 
Henry of Windsor, who was gracious to him in other 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 235 

days, and to while the duress of that princely captive with 
the show of a quaint instrument he has invented.” 

“Doubtless,” answered Hastings, who deserved his 
character (rare in that day) for humanity and mildness — 
“doubtless it will pleasure me, nor offend his grace the 
king, to show all courtesy and indulgence to the unhappy 
gentleman and lord, whom the weal of England con- 
demns us to hold incarcerate. I have heard of thy father, 
maiden, an honesf and simple man, in whom we need not 
fear a conspirator ; and of the young mistress, I have 
heard also, since we parted.” 

“ Of me, noble sir ? ” 

“ Of thee,” said Hastings, with a smile ; and, placing 
a seat for her, he took from the table an illuminated MS. 
“ I have to thank thy friend. Master Alwyn, for procuring 
me this treasure ! ” 

“ What, my lord ! ” said Sibyll, and her eyes glistened, 
“were you — you the — the ” 

“ The fortunate person whom Alwyn has enriched at so 
slight a cost. Yes. Do not grudge me my good fortune 
in this. Thou hast nobler treasures, methinks, to bestow 
on another I ” 

“My good lordl” 

“ Nay, I must not distress thee. And the young gen- 
tleman has a fair face; may it bespeak a true heart I” 

These words gave Sibyll an emotion of strange delight. 
They seemed spoken sadly — they seemed to betoken a 
jealous sorrow — they awoke the strange, wayward, wo- 
man-feeling, which is pleased at the pain that betrays 


236 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


the woman’s influence : the girl’s rosy lips smiled rnalh 
ciously. Hastings watched her, and her face was so 
radiant with that rare gleam of secret happiness — so 
fresh, so young, so pure, and withal so arch and capti- 
vating, that hackneyed and jaded as he was in the vulgar 
pursuit of pleasure, the sight moved better and tenderer 
feelings than those of the sensualist. “Yes,” he mut- 
tered to himself, “ there are some toys it were a sin to 
sport with and cast away amidst the broken rubbish of 
gone passions 1 ” 

He turned to the table, and wrote the order of admis- 
sion to Henry’s prison, and as he gave it to Sibyll, he 
said, “ Thy young gallant, I see, is at the court now. 
It is a perilous ordeal, and especially to one for whom 
the name of Nevile opens the road to advancement and 
honor. Men learn betimes in courts to forsake Love for 
Plutus, and many a wealthy lord would give his heiress 
to the poorest gentleman who claims kindred to the Earl 
of Salisbury and Warwick.” 

“ May my father’s guest so prosper,” answered Sibyll, 
“ for he seems of loyal heart and gentle nature 1 ” 

“ Thou art unselfish, sweet mistress,” said Hastings ; 
and, surprised by her careless tone, he paused a moment, 
“ or art thou, in truth, indifferent ? Saw I not thy hand 
in his, when even those loathly tymbesteres chanted warn- 
ing to thee for loving, not above thy merits, but, alas, it 
may be, above thy fortunes?” 

SibylPs delight increased. Oh, then, he had not ap- 
plied that hateful warning to himself ! He guessed not 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 237 

her secret. She blushed, and the blush was so chaste 
and maidenly, while the smile that went with it was so 
ineffably animated and joyous, that Hastings exclaimed, 
with unaffected admiration, “ Surely, fair damsel, Petrarch 
dreamed of thee, when he spoke of the woman-blush and 
the angel-smile of Laura. Woe to the man who would 
injure thee. Farewell ! I would not see thee too often, 
unless I saw thee ever.” 

He lifted her hand to bis lips, with a chivalrous se- 
spect, as he spoke ; opened the door, and called his page 
to attend her to the gates. 

Sibyll was more flattered by the abrupt dismissal, than 
if he had knelt to detain her. How different seemed the 
world as her light step wended homeward 1 


CHAPTER V. 

Master Adam Warner and King Henry the Sixth. 

The next morning Hilyard revisited Warner, with the 
letters for Henry. The conspirator made Adam reveal 
to him the interior mechanism of the Eureka to which 
Adam, who had toiled all night, had appended one of the 
most ingenious contrivances he had as yet been enabled 
(sans the diamond) to accomplish, for the better display 
of the agencies which the engine was designed to achieve. 
This contrivance was full of strange cells and recesses, in 
one of wliich the documents were placed. And there 


238 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


they lay, so well concealed as to puzzle the minutest 
search, if not aided by the inventor, or one to whom he 
had communicated the secrets of the contrivance 
After repeated warnings and exhortations to discre- 
tion, Hilyard then, whose busy, active mind had made 
all the necessary arrangements, summoned a stout-looking 
fellow, whom he had left below, and, with his aid, con- 
veyed the heavy machine across the garden, to a back 
lane, where a mule stood ready to receive the burden. 

“ Suffer this trusty fellow to guide thee, dear Adam ; 
he will take thee through ways where thy brutal neigh- 
bors are not likely to meet and molest thee. Call all thy 
wits to the surface. Speed and prosper 1 ” 

“ Fear not,” said Adam, disdainfully. “ In the neigh- 
bourhood of kings, science is ever safe. Bless thee, 
child,” and he laid his hand upon SibylPs head, for she 
had accompanied them thus far in silence — “now go in.” 

“ I go with thee, father,” said Sibyll, firmly. “ Master 
Hilyard, it is best so,” she whispered j “ what if my father 
Tall into one of his reveries ! ” 

“ You are right : go with him, at least, to the Tower- 
gate. Hard by, is the house of a noble dame, and a 
worthy, known to our friend Hugh, where thou mayest 
wait Master Warner’s return. It will not suit thy 
modesty and sex to loiter amongst the pages and soldiery 
in the yard. Adam, thy daughter must wend with thee.” 

Adam had not attended to this colloquy, and me- 
chanically bowing his head, he set off, and was greatly 
surprised, on gaining the river side (where a boat was 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


239 


found large enough to accommodate not only the human, 
passengers, but the mule, and its burden), to see Sibyl! 
by his side. 

The imprisonment of the unfortunate Henry, though 
guarded with sufficient rigor against all chances of 
escape, was not, as the reader has perceived, at this 
period embittered by unnecessary harshness. His attend- 
ants treated him with respect, his table was supplied 
more abundantly and daintily than his habitual abstinence 
required, and the monks and learned men whom he had 
favored, were, we need not repeat, permitted to enliven 
his solitude with their grave converse. 

On the other hand, all attempts at correspondence be- 
tween Margaret, or the exiled Lancastrians and himself, 
had been jealously watched, and when detected, the 
emissaries had been punished with relentless severity. A 
man named Hawkins had been racked for attempting to 
borrow money for the queen from the great London 
merchant. Sir Thomas Cook. A shoemaker had been 
tortured to death, with red-hot pincers, for abetting her 
correspondence with her allies. Various persons had 
been racked for similar offences, but the energy of Marga- 
ret, and the zeal of her adherents, were still unexhausted 
and unconquered. 

Either unconscious or contemptuous of the perils to 
which he was subjected, the student, with his silent com- 
panions, performed the voyage, and landed in sight of 
the Fortress-Palatine. And now Hugh stopped before 
a house of good fashion, knocked at the door, which was 


240 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

opened by an old servitor, disappeared for a few moments, 
and returning, informed Sibyll, in a meaning whisper, 
that the gentle-woman within was a good Lancastrian, 
and prayed the donzell to rest in her company, till 
Master Warner’s return. 

Sibyll, accordingly, after pressing her father’s hand 
without fear, for she had deemed the sole danger Adam 
risked was from the rabble by the way, followed Hugh 
into a fair chamber, strewed with rushes, where an aged 
dame, of noble air and aspect, was employed at her 
broidery frame. This gentlewoman, the widow of a 
nobleman who had fallen in the service of Henry, received 
her graciously, and Hugh then retired to complete his 
commission. The student, the mule, the model, and the 
porter, pursued their way to the entrance of that part 
of the gloomy palace inhabited by Henry. Here they 
were stopped, and Adam, after rummaging long in vain, 
for the chamberlain’s passport, at last happily discovered 
it, pinned to his sleeve, by Sibyll’s forethought. On this 
a gentleman was summoned to inspect the order, and in 
a few moments Adam was conducted to the presence of 
the illustrious prisoner. 

“And what,” said a subaltern officer, lolling by the 
archway of the (now styled) “ Bloody Tower,” hard by 
the turret devoted to the prisoner,* and speaking to 
Adam’s guide, who still mounted guard by the model, — 
“ what may be the precious burden of which thou art the 
convoy 'i ” 


* Tlie Wiikffiekl Tower. 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 24 J 

“ Marry, sir,” said Hugh, who spoke in the strong 
Yorkshire dialect, which we are obliged to render into 
intelligible English — “marry, I weet not, — it is some 
curious puppet-box, or quiet contrivance, that Master 
Warner, whom they say is a a very deft and ingenious 
personage, is permitted to bring hither for the Lord 
Henry’s diversion.” 

“A puppet-box !” said the officer with much animated 
curiosity. “ ’Fore the mass 1 that must be a pleasant 
sight. Lift the lid, fellow I ” 

“ Please your honor, I do not dare,” returned Hugh — 
“ I but obey orders.” 

“ Obey mine, then. Out of the way ! ” and the officer 
lifted the lid of the pannier with the point of his dagger, 
and peeped within. He drew back, much disappointed — 
“Holy mother!” said he, “this seemeth more like an 
instrument of torture, than a juggler’s merry device. It 
looks parlous ugly 1 ” 

“ Hush ! ” said one of the lazy bystanders, with whom 
the various gateways and courts of the palace-fortress 
were crowded, “hush! — thy cap and thy knee, sir!” 

The officer started ; and, looking round, perceived a 
young man of low stature, followed by three or four 
knights and nobles, slowly approaching towards the arch, 
and every cap in the vicinity was off, and every knee 
bowed. 

The eye of this young man was already bent, with a 
searching and keen gaze, upon the motionless mule, 
standing patiently by the Wakefield Tower; and turning 

I.— 21 Q 


242 the last op the barons. 

from the mule to the porter, the latter shrunk, and grew 
pale, at that dark, steady, penetrating eye, which seemed 
to pierce at once into the secrets and hearts of men. 

“ Who may this young lord be ? ” he whispered to the 
officer. 

“Prince Richard, Duke of Gloucester, man,” was the 
answer. “ Uncover, varlet I ” 

“ Surely,” said the prince, pausing by the gate, “surely 
this is no sumpter-mule, bearing provisions to the Lord 
Henry of Windsor. It would be but poor respect to 
that noble person, whom, alas the day ! his grace the 
king is unwillingly compelled to guard from the malicious 
designs of rebels and mischief-seekers, that one not bear- 
ing the king’s livery should attend to any of the needful 
wants of so worshipful a lord and guest I ” 

“ My lord,” said the officer at the gate, “ one Master 
Adam Warner hath just, by permission, been conducted 
to the Lord Henry’s presence, and the beast beareth 
some strange and grim-looking device for my lord’s 
diversion.” 

The singular softness and urbanity which generally 
characterized the Duke of Gloucester’s tone and bearing 
at that time, — which, in a court so full of factions and 
intrigues, made him the enemy of none, and seemingly 
the friend of all, and, conjoined with abilities already 
universally acknowledged, had given to his very boyhood 
a pre-eminence of grave repute and good opinion, which, 
indeed, he retained till the terrible circumstances con- 
nected with his accession to the throne, under the bloody 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


243 


name of Richard the Third, roused all men’s hearts and 
reasons into the persuasion that what before had seemed 
virtue was but dissimulation; — this singular sweetness, 
we say, of manner and voice, had in it, nevertheless, 
something that imposed, and thrilled, and awed. And, 
in truth, in our common and more vulgar intercourse 
with life, we must have observed, that where external 
gentleness of bearing is accompanied by a repute for 
iron will, determined resolution, and a serious, profound, 
and all-inquiring intellect, it carries with it a majesty 
wholly distinct from that charm which is exercised by one 
w'hose mildness of nature corresponds with the outward 
humility ; and, if it does not convey the notion of false- 
ness, bears the appearance of that perfect self-posses.sion, 
that calm repose of power, which intimidates those it 
influences far more than the imperious port and the loud 
voice. And they who best knew the duke, knew also 
that, despite this general smoothness of mien, his tem- 
perament was naturally irritable, quick, and subject to 
stormy gusts of passion, the which defects his admirers 
praised him for laboring hard and sedulously to keep in 
due control. Still, to a keen observer, the constitutional 
tendencies of that nervous temperament were often visible, 
even in his blandest moments — even when his voice was 
most musical, his smile most gracious. If something 
stung, or excited him, an uneasy gnawing of the nether 
lip, a fretful playing with his dagger, drawing it up and 
down from its sheath,* a slight twitching of the muscles 


* Pol. Virg. 565. 


244 the last of the barons. 

of tne face, and a quiver of the eyelid, betokened the 
efforts he made at self-command ; and now, as his dark 
eyes rested upon Hugh’s pale countenance, and then 
glanced upon the impassive mule, dozing quietly under 
the weight of poor Adam’s model, his hand meclianically 
sought his dagger-hilt, and his face took a sinister and 
sombre expression, 

“Thy name, friend?” 

“Hugh Withers — please you, my lord duke.” 

“Uml North country, by thine accent. Dost thou 
serve this Master Warner ? ” 

“No, my lord, I was only hired with my mule to 
carry ” 

“ Ah ! true I to carry what thy pannier contains ; open 
it. Holy Paul ! a strange jonglerie indeed ! This Master 
Adam Warner, — methinks, I have heard his name — a 
learned man — um — let me see his safe conduct. Right — 
it is Lord Hastings’s signature.” But still the prince held 
the passport, and still suspiciously eyed the Eureka and 
its appliances, which, in its complicated and native ugli- 
ness of doors, wheels, pipes, and chimney, were exposed 
to his view. At this moment one of the attendants of 
Henry descended the stairs of the Wakefield Tower, with 
the request that the model might be carried up to divert 
the prisoner. 

Richard paused a moment, as the officer hesitatingly 
watched his countenance before giving the desired per- 
mission. But the prince, turning to him, and smoothing 
his brow, said mildly — “ Certes ! all that can divert the 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


24 ^ 


Lord Henry must be innocent pastime. And I am well 
pleased that he hath this cheerful mood for recreation. 
It gainsayeth those who would accuse us of rigour in his 
durance. Yes, this warrant is complete and formal ; ” 
and the prince returned the passport to the officer, and 
w’alked slowly on through that gloomy arch evermore 
associated with Richard of Gloucester’s memory, and 
beneath the very room in which our belief yet holds that 
the infant sons of Edward lY. breathed their last ; still 
as Gloucester moved, he turned and turned, and kept his 
eye furtively fixed upon the porter. 

“ Lovell,” he said to one of the gentlemen who attended 
him, and who was among the few admitted to his more 
peculiar intimacy — “that man is of the north.” 

“Well^ my lord?” 

“ The north was always well affected to the Lancas- 
trians. Master Warner hath been accused of witchcraft. 
‘Marry, I should like to see his device — urn, Master 
Catesby, come hither — approach, sir. Go back, and the 
instant Adam Warner and his contrivance are dismissed 
— bring them both to me in the king’s chamber. Thou 
understandest ? We too would see his device — and let 
neither man nor mechanical, when once they reappear, 
out of thine eye’s reach. For divers and subtle are the 
contrivances of treasonable men I ” 

Catesby bowed, and Richard, without speaking further, 
took his way to the royal apartments, which lay beyond 
the White Tower, towards the river, and are long since 
demolished. 

21 * 


246 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

Meanwhile the porter, with the aid of one of the 
attendants, had carried the model into the chamber of 
the august captive. Henry, attired in a loose robe, was 
pacing the room with a slow step, and his head sunk on 
his bosom, — while Adam, with much animation, was en- 
larging on the wonders of the contrivance he was about 
to show him. The chamber was commodious, and fur- 
nished with sufficient attention to the state and dignity 
of the prisoner ; for Edward, though savage and relent- 
less when his blood was up, never descended into the 
cool and continuous cruelty of detail. 

The chamber may yet be seen ; its shape a spacious 
octagon ; but the walls now rude and bare, were then 
painted and blazoned with scenes from the Old Testa- 
ment. The door opened beneath the pointed arch in 
the central side (not where it now does), giving entrance 
from a small ante-room, in which the visitor now beholds 
the receptacle for old rolls and papers. At the right, on 
entering, where now, if our memory mistake not, is placed 
a press, stood the bed, quaintly carved, and with hang- 
ings of damascene. At the farther end, the deep recess 
which faced the ancient door was fitted up as a kind of 
oratory. And there were to be seen, besides the crucifix 
and the mass-book, a profusion of small vessels of gold 
and crystal, containing the relics, supposed or real, of 
saint and martyr, treasures which the deposed king had 
collected in his palmier days at a sum that, in the minds 
of his followers, had been better bestowed on arms and 
war-steeds. A young man named Allerton — one of the 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 247 

three gentlemen personally attached to Henry, to whom 
Edward had permitted general access, and who, in fact, 
lodged in other apartments of the Wakefield Tower, and 
might be said to share his captivity — was seated before a 
table, and following the steps of his musing master, with 
earnest and watchful eyes. 

One of the small spaniels employed in springing game 
— for Henry, despite his mildness, had been fond of all 
the sports of the field — lay curled round on the floor, but 
started up, with a shrill bark, at the entrance of the 
bearer of the model, while a starling, in a cage by the 
window, seemingly delighted at the disturbance, flapped 
his wings, and screamed out, “ Bad men I — Bad world I 

Poor Henry I ” 

The captive paused at that cry, and a sad and patient 
smile of inexpressible melancholy and sweetness hovered 
over his lips. Henry still retained much of the personal 
comeliness he possessed at the time when Margaret of 
Anjou, the theme of minstrel and miune-singer, left her 
native court of poets for the fatal throne of England. 
But beauty, usually so popular and precious a gift to 
kings, was not in him of that order which commanded the 
eye and moved the admiration of a turbulent people and 
a haughty chivalry. The features, if regular, were small ; 
their expression meek and timid ; the form, though tall, 
was not firm-knit and muscular ; the lower limbs were too 
thin, the body had too much flesh, the delicate hands be- 
trayed the sickly paleness of feeble health ; there was a 
dreamy vaerueness in the clear soft blue eyes, and a list- 


248 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


less absence of all energy in the habitual bend, the slow, 
heavy sauntering tread — all about that benevolent aspect, 
that soft voice, that resigned mien, and gentle manner, 
spoke the exquisite unresisting goodness, which provoked 
the lewd to taunt, the hardy to despise, the insolent to 
rebel : — for the foes of a king in stormy times are often 
less his vices than his virtues. 

“And now, good my lord,” said Adam, hastening, with 
eager hands, to assist the bearer in depositing the model 
on the table — “ now will I explain to you the contrivance 
which it hath cost me long years of patient toil to shape 
from thought into this iron form.” 

“But first,” said Allerton, “ were it not well that these 
good people withdrew ? A contriver likes not others to 
learn his secret ere the time hath come to reap its 
profits.” 

“Surely — surely I ” said Adam, and alarmed at the 
idea thus suggested, he threw the folds of his gown over 
the model. 

The attendant bowed and retired; Hugh followed 
him, but not till he had exchanged a significant look with 
Allerton. 

As soon as the room was left clear to Adam, the cap- 
tive, and Master Allerton, the last rose, and looking 
hastily round the chamber, approached the mechanician. 
“ Quick, sir I ” said he in a whisper, “ we are not often 
left without witnesses.” 

Verily,” said Adam, who had now forgot kings and 
stratagems, plots and counterplots, and was all absorbed 


THE L'AST OF THE BARONS. 


249 


in his invention, “verily, young man, hurry not in this 
fashion — I am about to begin. Know, my lord,” and he 
turned to Henry, who, with an indolent, dreamy gaze, 
stood contemplating the Eureka, — “know that, more 
than a hundred years before the Christian era, one Hero, 
an Alexandrian, discovered the force produced by the 
vapor begot by heat on water. That this power was not 
unknown to the ancient sages, witness the contrivances, 
not otherwise to be accounted for, of the heathen oracles ; 
but to our great countryman and predecessor, Roger 
Bacon, who first suggested that vehicles might be drawn 
without steeds or steers, and ships might ” 

“Marry, sir,” interrupted Allerton, with great im- 
patience, “it is not to prate to us of such trivial fables 
of Man, or such wanton sports of the Foul Fiend, that 
thou hast risked life and limb. Time is precious. I have 
been prevised that thou hast letters for King Henry ; 
produce them — quick ! ” 

A deep glow of indignation had overspread the 
enthusiast’s face at the commencement of this address ; 
but the close reminded him, in truth, of his errand. 

“ Hot youth,” said he, with dignity, “ a future age 
mav judge differently of what thou deemest trivial fables, 
and may rate high this poor invention when the brawls 
of York and Lancaster are forgotten.” 

“Hear him,” said Henry, with a soft smile, and laying 
his hand on the shoulder of the young man, who was 
about to utter a passionate and scornful retort — “Plear 
aim, sir. Have I not often and ever said this same thing 


250 


THE LAST OF THE BA’RONS. 


to thee ? We children of a day imagine our contests are 
the sole things that move the world. Alack ! our fathers 
thought the same ; and they and their turmoils sleep for- 
gotten I Nay, Master Warner,’^ — for here Adam, poor 
man, awed by Henry’s mildness into shame at his dis- 
courteous vaunting, began to apologize, — “ nay, sir, nay 
— thou art right to contemn our bloody and futile strug- 
gles for a crown of thorns ; for 

‘Kingdoms are but cares. 

State is devoid of stay; 

Riches are ready snares, 

And hasten to decay.’* 

And yet, sir, believe me, thou hast no cause for vain glory 
in thine own craft and labors ; for to wit and to lere there 
are the same vanity and vexation of spirit as to war and 
empire. Only, 0 would-be wise man, only when we muse 
on Heaven do our souls ascend from the fowler’s snare I” 

“ My saint-like liege,” said Allerton, bowing low, and 
with tears in his eyes, “ thinkest thou not that thy very 
disdain of thy rights makes thee more worthy of them ? 
If not for thine, for thy sou’s sake — remember that the 
usurper sits on the throne of the conqueror of Agin- 
court I — Sir Clerk, the letters.” 

Adam, already anxious to retrieve the error of his first 
forgetfulness, here, after a moment’s struggle for the ne- 

* Lines ascribed to Henry VI., with commendation “ as a prettie 
verse,” by Sir John Harrington, in the “ Nug^ Antiqus©.” They 
are also given, with little alteration, to the unhappy king by Bald 
win, in his tragedy of “ King Henry VI.” 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


251 


cessary remembrance, drew the papers from' the laby- 
rinthine receptacle which concealed them ; and Henry 
uttered an exclamation of joy as, after cutting the silk, 
his eye glanced over the writing — 

“ My Margaret ! my wife ! ” Presently he grew pale, 
and his hands trembled. “ Saints defend her ! — Saints 
defend her I She is here, disguised, in London ! ” 

Margaret ! our hero-queen ! the manlike woman ! ” 
exclaimed Allerton, clasping his hands — “Then be sure 

that ’’ .He stopped, and abruptly taking Adam’s 

arm, drew him aside, while Henry continued to read — 
“ Master Warner, we may trust thee — thou art one of us 
— thou art sent here, I know, by Robin of Redesdale — 
we may trust thee ? ” 

“Young sir,” replied the philosopher, gravely, “the 
fears and hopes of power are not amidst the uneasier 
passions of •the student’s mind, I pledged myself but to 
bear these papers hither, and to return with what may 
be sent back.” 

“ But thou didst this for love of the cause, the truth, 
and the right ? ” 

“I did it partly from Hilyard’s tale of wrong — but 
partly, also, for the gold,” answered Adam, simply ; and 
his noble air, his high brow, the serene calm of his fea- 
tures, so contrasted the meanness implied in the latter 
words of his confession, that Allerton stared at him 
amazed, and without reply. 

Meanwhile Henry had concluded the letter, and with a 
heavy siffh glanced over the papers that accompanied it, 


252 THE LAST OF THE BARONS, 

“Alank ! alack I more turbulence, more danger, and 
disquiet — more of my people’s blood!” He motioned 
to the young man, and drawing him to the window, while 
Adam returned to his model, put the papers in his hand. 
“Allerton,” he said, “thou lovest me, but thou art one 
of the few in this distraught land who love also God. 
Thou art not one of the warriors, the men of steel. 
Counsel me. See — Margaret demands my signature to 
these papers ; the one, empowering and craving the levy 
of men and arms in the northern counties ; the other, 
promising free pardon to all who will desert Edward ; 
the third — it seemeth to me more strange and less king- 
like than the others, — undertaking to abolish all the im- 
posts and all the laws that press upon the commons, and 
(is this a holy and pious stipulation ?) to inquire into the 
exactions and persecutions of the priesthood of our Holy 
Church ! ” / 

“ Sire ! ” said the young man, after he had hastily 
perused the papers, “ my lady liege showeth good argu- 
ment for your assent to two, at least, of these under- 
takings. See the names of fifty gentlemen ready to take 
arms in your cause if authorized by your royal warrant. 
The men of the North are malcontent with the usurper, 
but they will not yet stir, unless at your own command. 
Such documents will, of course, be used with discretion, 
and not to imperil your grace’s safety.” 

“ My safety ! ” said Henry, with a flash of his father’s 
hero-soul in his eyes — “ of that I think not ! If I have 
small courage to attack, I have some fortitude to bear I 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 25S 

But, three months after these be signed, how many brave 
hearts will be still ! — how many stout hands be dust I 
O Margaret ! Margaret ! why temptest thou ? Wert thou 
so happy when a queen?’’ 

The prisoner broke from Allerton’s arm, and walked, 
in great disorder and irresolution, to and fro the cham- 
ber ; and strange it was to see the contrast between him- 
self and Warner — both, in so much alike — both so purely 
creatures out of the common world, so gentle — abstract 
— so utterly living in the life apart : and now, the student 
so calm, the prince so disturbed I The contrast struck 
Henry himself. He paused abruptly, and, folding his 
arms, contemplated the philosopher, as with an afiec- 
tionate complacency, Adam played and toyed, as it were, 
with his beloved model ; now opening and shutting again 
its doors — now brushing away with his sleeve some par- 
ticles of dust that had settled on it — now retiring a few 
paces to gaze the better on its stern symmetry. 

‘‘ Oh, my Allerton ! ” cried Henry, “ behold ! the king- 
dom a man makes out of his own mind is the only one 
that it delighteth man to govern ! Behold, he is lord 
over its springs and movements, its wheels revolve and 
stop at his bidding. Here, here, alone, God never asketh 
the ruler — ‘Why was the blood of thousands poured forth 
Mke water, that a worm might wear a crown V ” 

“ Sire,” said Allerton, solemnly, “ when our Heavenly 
King appoints his anointed representative on earth, he 
gives to that human delegate no power to resign the 
ambassade and trust. What suicide is to a man, abdica- 
L — 


254 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


tion is to a king ! How canst thou dispose of thy son^s 
rights ? And what become of those rights, if thou wilt 
prefer for him the exile — for thyself, the prison, — when 
one effort may restore a throne I ” 

Henry seemed struck by a tone of argument that suited 
both his own mind and the reasoning of the age. He 
gazed a moment on the face of the young man, muttered 
to himself, and suddenly moving to the table, signed* the 
papers, and restored them to Adam,^who mechanically 
replaced them in their iron hiding-place : — r 

“Now begone, sir I ” whispered Allerton, afraid that 
Henry’s mind might again change. 

“Will not my lord examine the engine ? ” asked War- 
ner, half-beseechingly. 

“ Not to-day ! See, he has already retired to his ora- 
tory — he is in prayer ! ” and, going to the door, Allerton 
summoned the attendants in waiting to carry down the 
model. 

“Well, well — patience, patience — thou shalt yet have 
thine audience at last,” muttered Adam, as he retired 
from the room, his eyes fixed upon the neglected* infant 
of his brain. . • 

."\ ft 

I : - 


t 


•f 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


255 


CHAPTER VI. 

How, on leaving King Log, Foolish Wisdom runs a-muck on 
King Stork. 

At the outer door of the Tower by which he had en- 
tered, the philosopher was accosted by Catesby — a man 
who, in imitation of his young patron, exhibited the soft 
and oily" manner which concealed intense ambition and 
innate ferocity. 

“Worshipful, my master,” said he, bowing low, but 
with a half sneer on his lips, “the king and his Highness 
the Duke of Gloucester have heard much of your strange 
skill, and command me to lead you to their presence. 
Follow, sir, and you, my men, convey this quaint contri- 
vance to the king’s apartments.” 

With this, not waiting for any reply, Catesby strode 
on. Hugh’s face fell — be turned very pale, and, imagin- 
ing himself unobserved, turned round to slink away. ’But 
Catesby, who seemed to have eyes at the back of his 
head, called out, in a mild tone — 

“ Good fellow, help to bear the mechanical — you too 
may be needed.” 

“Cog’s wounds!” muttered Hugh, “an’ I had but 
known what it was to set my foot in a king’s palace ! 
Such walking may do for the silken shoon, but the hob- 
nail always gets into a hobble.” With that, affecting a 


256 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

cheerful mien, he helped to replace the model on the 
mule. 

Meanwhile, Adam, elated, poor man I at the flattery 
of the royal mandate, persuaded that his fame had 
reached Edward’s ears, and chafed by the little heed paid 
by the pious Henry to his great work, stalked on, his 
head in the air. “ Yerily,” mused the student, “King 
Edward may have been a cruel youth, and over hasty; 
it is horrible to think of Robert Hilyard’s calamities ! 
But men do say he hath an acute and masterly compre- 
hension. Doubtless, he will perceive at a glance how 
much I can advantage his kingdom.” With this, we 
grieve to say, selfish reflection, w'hich, if the thought of 
his model could have slept awhile, Adam would have 
blushed to recall, as an affront to Hilyard’s wrongs, the 
philosopher followed Catesby across the spacious yard, 
along a narrow passage, and up a winding turret-stair, 
to a room in the third story, w'hich opened at one door 
into the king’s closet, at the other into the spacious gal- 
lery, which was already a feature in the plan of the more 
princely houses. In another minute Adam and his model 
were in the presence of the king. The part of the room 
in which Edward sate was distinguished from the rest by 
a small eastern carpet on the floor (a luxury more in use 
in the palaces of that day, than it appears to have been 
a century later) a table was set before him, on which 
the model w'as placed. At his right hand sat Jacquetta, 
Duchess of Bedford, the queen’s mother ; at his left, 


* See the Narrative of the Lord Grauthuse, before referred to. 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 257 

Prince Richard. The duchess, though not without the 
remains of beauty, had a stern, haughty, scornful expres- 
sion, in her sharp aquiline features, compressed lips, ana 
imperious eye. The paleness of her complexion, and the 
careworn anxious lines of her countenance, were ascribed 
by the vulgar to studies of no holy cast. Her reputation 
for sorcery and witchcraft was daily increasing, and served 
well the purpose of the discontented barons, whom the 
rise of her children mortified and enraged. 

“Approach, Master What say you his name is, 

Richard ? ” 

“Adam Warner,’^ replied the sweet voice of the Duke 
of Gloucester, “of excellent skill in the mathematics.’’ 

“Approach, sir, and show us the nature of this notable 
invention.” 

“I desire nothing better, my lord king,” said Adam, 
boldly. “But first, let me crave a small modicum of 
fuel. Fire, which is the life of the world, as the wise of 
old held it, is also the soul of this — my mechanical.” 

“ Peradventure,” whispered the duchess, “the wizard 
desireth to consume us I ” 

“More likely,” replied Richard, in the same under 
tone, “to consume whatever of treasonable nature may 
lurk concealed in his engine.” 

“ True,” said Edward, and then, speaking aloud, 
“Master Warner,” he added, “put thy puppet to its 
purpose — without fire ; — we will it.” 

“ It is impossible, my lord,” said Adam, with a lofty 
22 * R 


258 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

smile. “ Science and nature are more powerful than a 
king’s word.” 

“ Do not say that in public, my friend,” said Edward, 
drily, “ or we must hang thee I I would not my subjects 
were told anything so treasonable. Howbeit, to give 
thee no excuse in failure, thou shalt have what thou 
needest.” 

“But surely not in our presence 1” exclaimed the 
duchess. “ This may be a device of the Lancastrians for 
our perdition.” 

“As you please, belle mbre,” said Edward, and he 
motioned to a gentleman, who stood a few paces behind 
his chair, and who, from the entrance of the mechanician, 
had seemed to observe him with intense interest. “ Mas- 
ter Nevile, attend this wise man ; supply his wants, and 
hark, in thy ear, watch well that he abstract nothing from 
the womb of his engine — observe what he doeth — be all 
eyes.” Marmaduke bowed low to conceal his change of 
countenance, and, stepping forward, made a sign to Adam 
to follow him. 

“ Go also, Catesby,” said Richard to his follower, who 
had taken his post near him, “ and clear the chamber.” 

As soon as the three members of the royal family were 
left alone, the king, stretching himself, with a slight yawn, 
observed, “ This man looks not like a conspirator, brother 
Richard, though his sententiary as to nature and science 
lacked loyalty and respect.” 

“Sire and brother,” answered Richard, “great leaders 
ofUMi diiuc their own tools; at least, meseeiin th t l,at tliev 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 259 

would reason well so to do. Remember, I have told theo 
that there is strong cause to suppose Margaret to be in 
London. In the suburbs of the city has also appeared, 
within the last few weeks, that strange and dangerous 
person, whose very objects are a mystery, save that he is 
our foe, — Robin of Redesdale. The men of the north 
have exhibited a spirit of insurrection ; a man of that 
country attends this reputed wizard, and he himself was 
favored in past times by Henry of Windsor. These are 
ominous signs when the conjunctions be considered ! ” 

“ It is well said ; but a fair day for breathing our pal- 
freys is half spent ! ” returned the indolent prince. “ By’r 
lady ! I like the fashion of thy supertunic well, Richard ; 
but thou hast it too much puffed over the shoulders.’’ 

Richard’s dark eye shot fire, and he gnawed his lip as 
he answered — “ God hath not given to me the fair shape 
of my kinsmen 1 ” 

“ Thy pardon, dear boy,” said Edward, kindly ; “ yet 
little needest thou our broad backs and strong sinews, 
for thou hast a tongue to charm women, and a wit to 
command men.” 

Richard bowed his face, little less beautiful than his 
brother’s, though wholly different from it in feature, for 
Edward had the long oval countenance, the fair hair, the 
rich coloring, and the large outline of his mother, the 
Rose of Raby. Richard, on the contrary, had the short 
face, the dark brown locks, and the pale olive complexion 
of his father, whom he alone of the royal brothers 


260 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


Strikingly resembled.* The cheeks, too, were somewhat 
sunken, and already, though scarcely past childhood, 
about his lips were seen the lines of thoughtful manhood. 
But then those small features, delicately aquiline, were 
so regular — that dark eye was so deep, so fathomless in 
its bright musing intelligence — that quivering lip was 
at once so beautifully formed and so expressive of intel- 
lectual subtlety and haughty will — and that pale forehead 
was so massive, high, and majestic, that when, at a later 
period, the Scottish prelatef commended Richard’s 
* i^v\\\GQ\y countenance,^ the compliment was not one to 
be disputed, much less contemned. But now as he rose, 
obedient to a whisper from the duchess, and followed her 
to the window, while Edward appeared engaged in ad- 
miring the shape of his own long upturned shoes, those 
defects in his shape which the popular hatred and the 
rise of the House of Tudor exaggerated into the absolute 
deformity, that the unexamining ignorance of modern 
days, and Shakspeare’s fiery tragedy, have fixed estab- 
lished caricature, were sufficiently apparent. Deformed 


* Pol. Virg. 544. 

f Archibald Quhitlaw. — “Faciem tuain summo imperio princi- 
patu dignam inspicit, quam moralis et heroica virtus illustrat,” 
&c. — We need scarcely observe that even a Scotchman would not 
have risked a public compliment to Richard’s face, if so inappro- 
priate as to seem a sarcasm, especially as the orator immediately 
proceeds to notice the shortness of Richard’s stature — a comment 
not likely to have been peculiarly acceptable. In the Rous Roll, 
the portrait of Richard represents him as undersized, but com- 
pactly and strongly built, and Avithout any sign of deformity, unless 
the inelegant defect of a short neck can be so called. 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. '261 

or hunchbacked we need scarcely say he was not, for no 
man so disfigured could have possessed that great per- 
sonal strength which he invariably exhibited in battle, 
despite the comparative slightness of his frame. He was 
considerably below the ordinary height, which the great 
stature of his brother rendered yet more disadvantageous 
by contrast, but his lower limbs were strong-jointed and 
muscular. Though the back was not curved, yet one 
shoulder was slightly higher than the other, which was 
the more observable from the evident pains that he took 
to disguise it, and the gorgeous splendor, savoring of 
personal coxcombry — from which no Plantagenet was 
ever free, — that he exhibited in his dress. And as, in a 
warlike age, the physical conformation of men is always 
critically regarded, so this defect, and that of his low 
stature, were not so much redeemed as they would be in 
our day by the beauty and intelligence of his face. Added 
to this, his neck was short, and a habit of bending his 
head on his bosom (arising either from thought, or the 
affectation of humility, which was a part of his charac- 
ter), made it seem shorter still. But this peculiarity, 
while taking from the grace, added to the strength of bis 
frame, which, spare, sinewy, and compact, showed to an 
observer that power of endurance — that combination of 
solid stubbornness and active energy, which, at the battle 
of Barnet, made him no less formidable to encounter than 
the ruthless sword of the mighty Edward. 

“So, prince,” said the duchess, “this new gentleman 


26iJ THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

of the king’s is, it seems, a Nevile. When will Edward’s 
high spirit cast off that hateful yoke ?” 

Richard sighed and shook his head. The duchess, 
encouraged by these signs of sympathy, continued — 

“Your brother Clarence, Prince Richard, despises us, 
to cringe to the proud earl. But you ” 

“I am not suitor to the Lady Isabel; Clarence is 
over-lavish, and Isabel has a fair face and a queenly 
dowry.” 

“May I perish,” said the duchess, “ere Warwick’s 
daughter wears the baudekin of royalty, and sits in as 
high a state as the queen’s mother I Prince, I would fain 
confer with thee ; we have a project to abase and banish 
this hateful lord. If you but join us, success is sure, the 
Count of Charolois ” 

“Dear lady,” interrupted Richard, with an air of pro- 
found humility, “tell me nothing of plot or project; my 
years are too few for such high and subtle policy ; and 
the Lord Warwick hath been a leal friend to our House 
of York.” 

The duchess bit her lip — “Yet I have heard you tell 
Edward that a subject can be too powerful 'i ” 

“Never, lady! you have never heard me.” 

“Then Edward has told Elizabeth that you so spoke.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Richard, turning away with a smile ; “ I 
see that the king’s conscience hath a discreet keeper. 
Pardon me. Edward, now that he hath sufficiently sur- 
veyed his shoon, must marvel at this prolonged colloquy. 
And see, the door opens.” 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 263 

Witli this, the duke slowly moved to the table, and re- 
sumed his seat. 

Marmaduke, full of fear for his ancient host, had in vain 
sought an opportunity to address a few words of exhor- 
tation to him to forbear all necromancy, and to abstain 
from all perilous distinctions between the power of Ed- 
ward IV. and that of his damnable Nature and Science ; 
but Catesby watched him with so feline a vigilance, that 
he was unable to slip in more than — *‘Ah, Master War- 
ner, for our blessed Lord’s sake, recollect that rack and 
cord are more than mere words here ! ” To the which 
pleasant remark, Adam, then busy in filling his miniature 
boiler, only replied by a wistful stare, not in the least 
recognizing the Nevile in his fine attire, and the new- 
fashioned mode of dressing his long hair. 

But Catesby watched in vain for the abstraction of any 
treasonable contents in the engine, which the Duke of 
Gloucester had so shrewdly suspected. The truth must 
be told. Adam had entirely forgotten that in the intri- 
cacies of his mechanical lurked the papers that might 
overthrow a throne I Magnificent Incarnation was he 
(in that oblivion) of Science itself, which cares not a jot 
for men and nations, in their ephemeral existences ; which 
only remembers things — things that endure for ages; 
and in its stupendous calculations loses sight of the unit 
of a generation! No — he had thoroughly forgotten 
Henry, Edward, his own limbs and life — not only York 
and Lancaster, but Adam Warner and the rack. Grand 
in his forgetfulness, he stood before the tiger and the 


264 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS 


tiger-cat — Edward and Richard — A Pure Thought — 
a Man’s Soul ; Science fearless in the presence of Cruelty, 
Tyranny, Craft, and Power. 

In truth, now that Adam was thoroughly in his own 
sphere — w'as in the domain of which he was king, and 
those beings in velvet and ermine w'ere but as ignorant 
savages admitted to the fontier of his realm, his form 
seemed to dilate into a majesty the beholders had not 
before recognized. And even the lazy Edward muttered, 
involuntarily, — “By my halidame, the man has a noble 
presence ! ” 

“I am prepared now, sire,” said Adam loftily, “to 
show to my king and to his court, that, unnoticed and 
obscure, in study and retreat, often live those men whom 
kings may be proud to call their subjects. Will it 
please you, my lords, this way I ” and he motioned so 
commandingly to the room in which he had left the 
Eureka, that his audience rose by a common impulse, 
and in another minute stood grouped round the model in 
the adjoining chamber. This really wonderful invention 
— so wonderful, indeed, that it will surpass the faith of 
those who do not pause to consider what vast forestal- 
ments of modern science have been made and lost in the 
darkness of ages not fitted to receive them, — was, doubt- 
less, in many important details, not yet adapted for the 
practical uses to which Adam designed its application. 
But as a mere model, as a marvellous essay, for the sug- 
gestion of gigantic results, it was, perhaps, to the full as 
effective as the ingenuity of a mechanic of our own day 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 265 

could construct. It is true that it was crowded with un- 
necessary cylinders, slides, cocks, and wheels — hideous 
and clumsy to the eye — but through this intricacy the 
great simple design accomplished its main object. It 
contrived to show what force and skill man can obtain 
from the alliance of nature ; the more clearly, inasmuch 
as the mechanism aflSxed to it, still more ingenious than 
itself, was well calculated to illustrate practically one of 
the many uses to which the principle was destined to be 
applied. 

Adam had not yet fathomed the secret by which to 
supply the miniature cylinder with sufficient steam for 
any prolonged effect, the great truth of latent heat was 
unknown to him ; but he had contrived to regulate the 
supply of water so as to make the engine discharge its 
duties sufficiently for the satisfaction of curiosity, and the 
explanation of its objects. And now this strange thing 
of iron was in full life. From its serpent chimney issued 
the thick rapid smoke, and the groan of its travail was 
heard within. 

“ And what propose you to yourself and to the king- 
dom, in all this. Master Adam ? asked Edward, curiously 
bending his tall person over the tortured iron. 

“I propose to make Nature the laborer of man,” 
answered Warner. “When I was a child of some eight 
years old, I observed that water swelleth into vapor 
when fire is applied to it. Twelve years afterwards, at 
the age of twenty, I observed that while undergoing this 
change, it exerts a mighty mechanical force. Attwenty- 

L— 23 


266 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


five, constantly musing, I said, ‘ Why should not that 
force become subject to man’s art ? ’ I then began the 
first rude model, of which this is the descendant. I 
noticed that the vapor so produced is elastic — that is, 
that as it expands, it presses against what opposes it ; it 
has a force applicable everywhere force is needed by 
man’s labor. Behold a second agency of gigantic re- 
sources. And then, still studying this, I perceived that 
the vapor thus produced can be re-converted into water, 
shrinking necessarily, while so re-transformed, from the 
space it filled as vapor, and leaving that space a vacuum. 
But Nature abhors a vacuum — produce a vacuum, and 
the bodies that surround rush into it. Thus, the vapor 
again, while changing back into water, becomes also a 
force — our agent. And all the while these truths were 
shaping themselves to my mind, I was devising and im- 
proving also the material form by which I might render 
them useful to man ; so at last, out of these truths, arose 
this invention ! ” 

“ Pardie,” said Edward, with the haste natural to roy- 
alty, “ what in common there can be between they jargon 
of smoke and water and this huge ugliness of iron passeth 
all understanding. But spare us thy speeehes, and on to 
thy puppet-show.” 

Adam stared a moment at the king in the surprise that 
one full of his subject feels when he sees it impossible to 
make another understand it, sighed, shook his head and 
prepared to begin. 

‘‘ Observe,” he said, “ that there is no juggling, no 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 26t 

deceit. I will place in this deposit this small lump of 
brass — would the size of this toy would admit of larger 
experiment ! I will then pray ye to note, as I open 
door after door, how tlie metal passes through various 
changes, all operated by this one agency of vapor. Heed 
and attend. Ahd if the crowning work please thee, think, 
great king, what such an agency upon the large scale 
would be to thee ; think how it would multiply all arts, 
and lessen all labor ; think that thou hast, in this, achieved 
for a whole people the true philosopher’s stone. Now 
note ! ” 

He placed the rough ore in its receptacle, and suddenly 
it seemed seized by a vice within, and vanished. He 
proceeded then, while dexterously attending to tlie com- 
plex movements, to open door after door, to show the 
astonished spectators the rapid transitions the metal un- 
derwent, and suddenly, in the midst of his pride, he 
stopped short, for, like a lightning-flash, came across his 
mind the remembrance of the fatal papers. Within the 
next door he was to open, they lay concealed. His 
change of countenance did not escape Richard, and he 
noted the door which Adam forbore to open, as the stu- 
dent hurriedly, and with some presence of mind, passed 
to the next, in which the metal was shortly to appear. 

‘ Open this door,” said the prince, pointing to the 
handle. 

<< j — forbear ! There is danger ! — forbear I ” ex- 
claimed the mechanician. 

"Danger to thine own neck, varlet and impostor!” 


26S 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


exclaimed the duke ; and he was about himself to open 
the door, when suddenly a loud roar — a terrific explosion 
was heard. Alas ! Adam Warner had not yet discovered 
for his engine what we now call the safety valve. The 
steam contained in the miniature boiler had acquired an 
undue pressure ; Adam’s attention had been too much 
engrossed to notice the signs of the growing increase, 
and the rest may be easily conceived. Nothing could 
equal the stupor and horror of the spectators at this 
explosion, save only the boy-duke, who remained immov- 
able, and still frowning. All rushed to the door, hud- 
dling one on the other, scarcely knowing what next was 
to befall them ; but certain that the wizard was bent 

m 

upon their destruction. Edward was the first to recover 
himself; and seeing that no lives were lost, his first im- 
pulse was that of ungovernable rage. - 

“Foul traitor!” he exclaimed, “was it for this that 
thou hast pretended to beguile us with thy damnable sor- 
ceries ! Seize him! Away to the Tower-hill! and let 
the priest patter an ave, while the doomsman knots the 
rope.” 

Not a hand stirred ; even Catesby would as lief have 
touched the king’s lion before meals, as that poor mechu' 
nician, standing aghast, and unheeding all, beside his 
mutilated engine. 

“Master Nevile,” said the king sternly, “dost thou 
hear us ? ” 

“ Yerily,” muttered the Nevile, approaching very slowly, 
“ I knew what would happen : but to lay hands on my 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 2C9 

host, an’ he were fifty times a wizard — No I My lie^e,” 
he said, in a firm tone, but falling on his knee, and his 
gallant countenance pale with generous terror — “ My 
liege, forgive me. This man succoured me when struck 
down and wounded by a Lancastrian ruffian — this man 
gave me shelter, food, and healing. Command me not, 
0 gracious my lord, to aid in taking the life of one to 
whom I owe my own.” 

“ His life ! ” exclaimed the Duchess of Bedford — “ the 
life of this most illustrious person ! Sire, you do not 
dream it I ” 

“ Heh I by the saints, what now?” cried' the king, 
whose choler, though fierce and ruthless, was as short- 
lived as the passions of the indolent usually are, and 
whom the earnest interposition of his mother-in-law much 
surprised and diverted. “ If, fair belle mere, thou think- 
est it so illustrious a deed to frighten us out of our mortal 
senses, and narrowly to ’scape sending us across the river 
like a bevy of balls from a bombard, there is no disputing 
of tastes. Rise up. Master Nevile, we esteem thee not 
less for thy boldness ; ever be the host and the benefactor 
revered by English gentlemen and Christian youth 
Master Warner may go free.” 

Here Warner uttered so deep and hollow a groan, 
that it startled all present. 

“ Twenty-five years of labor, and not to have seen 
this ! ” he ejaculated. “ Twenty and five years, and all 
vasted ! How repair this disaster. 0 fatal day!” 

“What says he? — what means he?” said Jacciuetta. 

2:1* 


270 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

“ Come home ! — home I” said Marmaduke, approach- 
ing the philosopher, in great alarm lest he should once 
more jeopardize his. life. But Adam, shaking him off, 
began eagerly, and with tremulous hands, to examine the 
machine, and not perceiving any mode by which to guard 
in future against a danger that he saw at once would, if 
not removed, render his invention useless, tottered to a 
chair, and covered his face with his hands. 

“ He seemeth mightily grieved that our bones are still 
whole 1’’ muttered Edward. “And why, belle m^re mine, 
wouldst thou protect this pleasant tregetour?^^ 

“What I said the duchess — “ see you not that a man 
capable of such devices must be of doughty service against 
our foes ? ’’ 

“ Not I — how ? ” 

“ Why, if merely to signify his displeasure at our 
young Richard’s over-curious meddling, he can cause 
this strange engine to shake the walls — nay, to destroy 
itself, think what he might do were his power and 
malice at our disposing. I know something of these 
uigroraancers.” 

“And would you knew less 1 for already the Commons 
murmur at your favor to them. But be it as you will. 
And now — ho, there ! — let our steeds be caparisoned.” 

“You forget, sire,” said Richard, who had hitherto 
silently watched the various parties, “ the object for which 
we summoned this worthy man. Please you now, sir, to 
open that door.” 

“No — no !” exclaimed the king, hastily, “ I will have 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


271 


no more provoking the foul fiend — conspirator or not, I 
have had enough of Master Warner. Pah I My poor 
placard is turned lampblack. Sweet mother-in-law, take 
him under thy protection; and Richard, come with me.” 

So saying, the king linked his arm in that of the 
reluctant Gloucester, and quitted the room. The duchess 
then ordered the rest also to depart, and was left alone 
with the crest-fallen philosopher. 


CHAPTER YII. 

My Lady Duchess’s Opinion of the Utility of Master Warner’s 
Invention, and her Esteem for its — Explosion! 

Adam, utterly unheeding, or rather deaf to, the dis- 
cussion that had taken place, and his narrow escape from 
cord and gibbet, lifted his head peevishly from his bosom, 
as the duchess rested her hand almost caressingly on his 
shoulder, and thus addressed him : — 

“ Most puissant sir, tliink not that I am one of those, 
who, in their ignorance and folly, slight the mysteries of 
which thou art clearly so great a master. When I heard 
thee speak of subjecting Nature to Man, I at once 
comprehended thee, and blushed for the dulness of ray 
kindred.” 

“Ah ! lady, thou hast studied, then, the mathematics. 
Alack! tills is a grievous blow; but it is no inherent 


272 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

fault in the device. I am clearly of mind that it can be 
remedied. But oh 1 what time — what thought — what 
sleepless nights — what gold will be needed!” 

“ Give me thy sleepless nights and thy grand thoughts, 
and thou shalt not want gold.” 

“Lady,” cried Adam, starting to his feet, “do I hear 
aright ? Art thou, in truth, the patron I have so long 
dreamed of? Hast thou the brain and the heart to aid 
the pursuits of science ? ” 

“Ay 1 and the power to protect the students ! Sage, 

I am the Duchess of Bedford, whom men accuse of witch- 
craft — as thee of wizardy. From the wife of a private 
gentleman, I have become the mother of a queen. I 
stand amidst a court full of foes ; I desire gold to cor- 
rupt, and wisdom to guard against, and means to destroy, 
them. And I seek all these in men like thee ! ” 

Adam turned on her his bewildered eyes, and made no 
answer. 

“ They tell me,” said the duchess, “ that Henry of 
Windsor employed learned men to transmute the baser 
metals into gold. Wert thou one of them?” 

“No.” 

“Thou knowest that art?” 

“ I studied it in my youth, but the ingredients of the 
crucible were too costly.” 

“Thou shalt not lack them with me — thou knowest 
the lore of the stars, and canst foretell the designs of 
enemies — the hour whether to act or to forbear?” 

“Astrology I have studied, but that also was in youth, 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 273 

for there dwelleth in the pure mathematics that have led 

me to this invention ” 

“Truce with that invention, whatever it be — think of 
it no more, it has served its end in the explosion, which 
proved thy power of mischief — high objects are now 
before thee. Wilt thou be of my household, one of my 
alchemists and astrologers ? Thou shalt have leisure, 
honor, and all the moneys thou canst need.” 

“ Moneys ! ” said Adam, eagerly, and casting his eyes 
upon the mangled model — “well, I agree — what you 
will — alchemist, astrologer, wizard — what you will. 
This shall all be repaired — all — I begin to see now — 
ah ! I begin to see — yes, if a pipe by which the too ex- 
cessive vapor could — ay, ay I — right, right,” and he 
rubbed his hands. 

Jacquetta was struck with his enthusiasm — “But 
surely. Master Warner, this has some virtue you have 
not vouchsafed to explain; — confide in me — can it 
change iron to gold ? ” 

“No — but ” 

“ Can it predict the future ? ” 

“ No — but ” 

“Can it prolong life?” 

“ No — but- ” 

“Then, in God’s name, let us waste no more time 
about itl” said the duchess, impatiently — “your art is 
mine now. Ho, there ! — I will send my page to conduct 
thee to thy apartments, and thou shalt lodge next to 
Friar Bungey, a man of wondrous lore, Master Warner, 


8 


274 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

and a worthy confrere in thy researches. Hast thou any 
one of kith and kin at home, to whom thou wilt announce 
thy advancement i ” 

“Ah, lady I Heaven forgive me, I have a daughter — 
an only child — my Sibyll, I cannot leave her alone, 
and ” 

“Well, nothing should distract thy cares from thine 
art — she shall be sent for. — I will rank her amongst my 
maidens. Fare thee well. Master Warner I At night I 
will send for thee, and appoint the tasks I would have 
thee accomplish.” 

So saying, the duchess quitted the room, and left Adam 
alone, bending over his model in deep reverie. 

From this absorption it was the poor man’s fate to be 
again aroused. 

The peculiar character of the boy-prince of Gloucester 
was that of one who having once seized upon an object, 
never willingly relinquished it. First he crept and slid, 
and coiled around it as the snake. But if craft failed, 
his passion, roused by resistance, sprang at his prey with 
a lion’s leap : and whoever examines the career of this 
extraordinary personage, will perceive, that whatever 
might be his habitual hypocrisy, he seemed to lose sight 
of it wholly, when once resolved upon force. Then the 
naked ferocity with which the destructive propensity 
swept away the objects in his path becomes fearfully and 
startlingly apparent, and offers a strange contrast to the 
wily duplicity with which, in calmer moments, he seems 
to have sought to coax the victim into his folds Firmly 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


275 


convinced that Adam’s engine had been made the medium 
of dangerous and treasonable correspondence with the 
royal prisoner, and, of that suspicious, restless, feverish 
temperament, which never slept when a fear waswaKened, 
a doubt conceived, he had broke from his brother, whose 
more open valor and less unquiet intellect were ever 
willing to leave the crown defended but by the gibbet 
for the detected traitor — the sword for the declared foe ; 
and obtaining Edward’s permission “to inquire further 
into these strange matters,” he sent at once for the porter 
who had conveyed the model to the Tower ; but that sus- 
picious accomplice was gone. The sound of the explo- 
sion of the engine had no less startled the guard below 
than the spectators above. Releasing their hold of their 
prisoner, they had some taken fairly to their heels, others 
rushed into the palace to learn what mischief had ensued ; 
and Hugh, with the quick discretion of his north country, 
had not lost so favorable an opportunity for escape. 
There stood the dozing mule at the door below, but the 
guide was vanished. More confirmed in his suspicions 
by this disappearance of Adam’s companion, Richard^ 
giving some preparatory orders to Catesby, turned at 
once to the room which still held the philosopher and his 
device. He closed the door on entering, and his brow 
wms dark and sinister as he approached the musing in- 
mate. But here we must return to Sibyll. 


276 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


CHAPTER YIII. 

The Old Woman talks of sorrows — The Young Woman dreams of 
Love — The Courtier flies from Present Power to Remembrances 
of Past Hopes — And the World-Betterer opens Utopia, with a 
view of the Oibbet foi the silly Sage he has seduced into his 
Schemes — So, ever and evermore, runs the World away! 

The old lady looked up from her embroidery-frame, as 
Sibyll sat musing on a stool before her ; she scanned the 
maiden with a. wistful and somewhat melancholy eye. 

“ Fair girl,” she said, breaking a silence that had 
lasted for some moments, “it seems to me that I have 
seen thy face before. Wert thou never in Queen Marga- 
ret’s court ? ” 

“In childhood, yes, lady.” 

“ Do you not remember me, the dame of Longueville ? ” 
Sibyll started in surprise, and gazed long before she 
recognized the features of her hostess ; for the dame of 
Longueville had been still, when Sibyll was a child at 
the court, renowned for matronly beauty, and the change 
was greater than the lapse of years could account for. 
The lady smiled sadly : “ Yes, you marvel to see me thus 
bent and faded. Maiden, I lost my husband at the battle 
of St. Alban’s, and my three sons in the field of Towton 
My lands and my wealth have been confiscated to enrich 
new men ; and to one of them — one of the enemies of the 
only king whom Alice de Longueville will acknowledge, 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 2M 

I owe the food for my board, ajid the roof for my head 
Do you marvel now that I am so changed?” 

Sibyll rose and kissed the lady’s hand, and the tear 
that sparkled on its surface was her only answer. 

“I learn,” said the dame of Longueville, “that your 
father has an order from the Lord Hastings to see King 
Henry. I trust that he will rest here as he returns, to 
tell me how the monarch-saint bears his afflictions. But 
I know : his example should console us all.” She paused 
a moment, and resumed, “ Sees your father much of the 
Lord Hastings ? ” 

“ He never saw him that I weet of,” answered Sibyll, 
blushing ; “the order was given, but as of usual form to 
a learned scholar.” 

“But given to whom?” persisted the lady 

“To — to me,” replied Sibyll, falteringly. 

The dame of Longueville smiled. 

“ Ah I Hastings could scarcely say no to a prayer from 
such rosy lips. But let me not imply aught to disparage 
his humane and gracious heart. To Lord Hastings, 
next to God and His saints, I owe all that is left to me 
on earth. Strange, that he is not yet here. This is the 
usual day and hour on which he comes, from pomp and 
pleasurement, to visit the lonely widow.” And, pleased 
to find an attentive listener to her grateful loquacity, the 
dame then proceeded, with warm eulogies upon her pro- 
tector, to inform Sibyll that her husband had, in the first 
outbreak of the Civil War, chanced to capture Hastings, 
and, moved by his valor and. youth, and some old con- 

1 . — 21 


278 THE Last of the barons. 

nections with his father^ Sir Leonard had favored hia 
escape from the certain death that awaited him from the 
wrath of the relentless Margaret. After the field of 
Towton, Hastings had accepted one of the manors confis- 
cated from the attainted House of Longueville, solely that 
he might restore it to the widow of the fallen lord ; and, 
with a chivalrous consideration, not contented with be- 
neficence, he omitted no occasion to show to the noble- 
woman whatever homage and respect might soothe the 
pride, which, in the poverty of those who have been great, 
becomes disease. The loyalty of the Lady Longueville 
was carried to a sentiment most rare in that day, and 
rather resembling the devotion inspired by the later 
Stuarts. She made her home within the precincts of the 
Tower, that, morning and eve, when Henry opened his 
lattice to greet the rising and the setting sun, she might 
catch a dim and distant glance of the captive king, or 
animate, by that sad sight, the hopes and courage of the 
Lancastrian emissaries, to whom, fearless of danger, she 
scrupled not to give counsel, and, at need, asylum. 

While Sibyll, with enchanted sense, was listening to 
the praise of Hastings, a low knock at the door was suc- 
ceeded by the entrance of that nobleman himself. Not 
to Elizabeth, in the alcoves of Shene, or on the dais of 
the palace hall, did the graceful courtier bend with more 
respectful reverence than to the powerless widow, whose 
very bread was his alms, for the true high-breeding of 
chivalry exists not without delicacy of feeling, formed 
originally by warmth of heart ; and though the warmtn 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


2Y9 


may lose its glow, the delicacy endures, as the steel, that 
acquires through heat its polish, retains its lustre, even 
when the shine but betrays the hardness. 

“ And how fares my noble lady of Longueville ? But 
need I ask ? for her cheek still wears the rose of Lancas- 
ter. A companion? Hal Mistress Warner, I learn now 
how much pleasure exists in surprise ! ’’ 

"My young visitor,” said the dame, "is but an old 
friend ; she was one of the child-maidens reared at the 
court of Queen Margaret.” 

" In sooth ! ” exclaimed Hastings ; and then, in an 
altered tone, he added, "but I should have guessed so 
much grace had not come all from nature. And your 
father has gone to see the Lord Henry, and you rest, 
here, his return ? Ah, noble lady ! may you harbor 
always such innocent Lancastrians.” 

The fascination of this eminent person’s voice and 
manner was such, that it soon restored Sibyll to the ease 
she had lost at his sudden entrance. He conversed gaily 
with the old dame upon such matters of court anecdote 
as in all the changes of state were still welcome to one so 
long accustomed to court air ; but from time to time he 
addressed himself to Sibyll, and provoked replies which 
startled herself— for she was not yet well aware of her" 
own gifts — by their spirit and intelligence. 

" You do not tell us,” said the Lady Longueville, sar- 
castically, " of the happy spousailles of Elizabeth’s brother 
with the Duchess of Norfolk — a bachelor of twenty, a 


280 THE LAST 01* THE BARONS. 

bride of some eighty-two.* Yerily, these ulliances are 
new things in the history of English royalty. But when 
Edward, who, even if not a rightful king, is at least a 
born Plantagenet, condescended to marry Mistress Eliza- 
beth, a born Woodville, scarce of good gentleman’s blood, 
nought else seems strange enough to provoke marvel.” 

“As to the last matter,” returned Hastings, gravely, 
“ though her grace the queen be no warm friend to me, 
I must needs become her champion and the king’s. The 
lady who refused the dishonoring suit of the fairest prince 
and the boldest knight in the Christian world, thereby 
made herself worthy of the suit that honored her ; it was 
not Elizabeth Woodville alone that won the' purple. On 
the day she mounted a throne, the chastity of woman 
herself was crowned.” 

“ What ! ” said the Lady Longueville, angrily, “ mean 
you to say that there is no disgrace in the mal-alliance 
of kite and falcon — of Plantagenet and Woodville — of 
high-born and mud-descended ? ” 

“ You forget, lady, that the widow of Henry the Fifth, 
Katharine of Yalois, a king’s daughter, married the 
Welsh soldier, Owen Tudor — that all England teems 
with brave men born from similar spousailles, where love 
has levelled all distinctions, and made a purer hearth, 
and raised a bolder offspring, than the lukewarm likings 
of hearts that beat but for lauds and gold. Wherefore, 

* The old chronicler justly calls this a “diabolical marriage.” 
It greatly roused the wrath of the nobles, and indeed of all honor- 
able men, as a proof of the shameless avarice of the queen’s family 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


281 


lady, appeal not to me, a squire of dames, a believer in 
the old Parliament of Love; — whoever is fair and 
chaste, gentle and loving, is, in the eyes of William De 
Hastings, the mate and equal of a king!” 

Sibyll turned involuntarily as the courtier spoke thus, 
with animation in his voice, and fire in his eyes; she 
turned, and her breath came quick ; — she turned, and 
her look met his, and those words and that look sank 
deep into her heart; they called forth brilliant and am- 
bitious dreams ; they rooted the growing love, but they 
aided to make it holy ; they gave to the delicious fancy 
what before it had not paused, on its vving, to sigh for ; 
they gave it that without which all fancy, sooner or 
later, dies ; they gave it that which, once received in a 
noble heart, is the excuse for untiring faith ; they gave 
it — Hope 1 

“ And thou wouldst say,” replied the lady of Longue- 
ville, with a meaning smile, still more emphatically — 
“thou wouldst say that a youth, brave and well nurtured, 
ambitious and loving, ought, in the eyes of rank and 
pride, to be the mate and equal of ” 

“Ah, noble dame,” interrupted Hastings, quickly; “I 
must not prolong encounter with so sharp a wit. Let 
me leave that answer to this fair maiden, for, by rights, 
it is a challenge to her sex, not to mine.” 

“How say you, then. Mistress Warner!” said the 
dame. “Suppose a young heiress, of the loftiest birth, 
of the broadest lands, of the comeliest form — suppose 
her wooed by a gentleman, poor and stationless, but with 
24 * 


282 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


a mighty soul, born to achieve greatness, would she 
lower herself by hearkening to his suit ? ” 

“A maiden, methinks,” answered Sibyll, with reluctant 
but charming hesitation, “cannot love truly, if she love 
unworthily ; and if she love worthily, it is not rank nor 
wealth she loves.” 

“But her parents, sweet mistress, may deem differently ; 
and should not her love refuse submission to their 
tjTanny?” asked Hastings. 

“Nay, good my lord, nay,” returned Sibyll, shaking 
her head with thoughtful demureness. “ Surely the 
wooer, if he love worthily, will not press her to the curse 
of a child’s disobedience and a parent’s wrath ! ” 

“ Shrewdly answered,” said the dame of Longueville. 

“ Then she would renounce the poor gentleman if the 
parent ordain her to marry a rich lord. Ah, you hesi- 
tate, for a woman’s ambition is pleased with the excuse 
of a child’s obedience.” 

Hastings said this so bitterly, that Sibyll could not but 
perceive that some personal feeling gave significance to 
his words. Yet how could they be applied to him, — to 
one now in rank and repute equal to the highest below 
the throne ? 

“If the demoiselle should so choose,” said the dame 
of Longueville, “it seemeth to me that the rejected 
suitor might find it facile to disdain and to forget.” 

Hastings made no reply ; but that remarkable and 
deep shade of melancholy which sometimes in his gayest 
hours startled those who beheld it, and which had, per- 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 283 

haps, induced many of the prophecies that circulated, as 
to the untimely and violent death that should close his 
bright career, gathered like a cloud over his brow. At 
this moment the door opened gently, and Robert Hilyard 
stood at the aperture. He was clad in the dress of a 
friar, but the raised cowl showed his features to the lady 
of Longueville, to whom alone he was visible ; and those 
bold features were literally haggard with agitation and 
alarm. He lifted his finger to his lips, and motioning 
the lady to follow him, closed the door. 

The dame of Longueville rose, and praying her visitors 
to excuse her absence for a few moments, she left Hast- 
ings and Sibyll to themselves. 

“ Lady,” said Hilyard, in a hollow whisper, as soon as 
the dame appeared in the low hall, communicating on one 
hand with the room just left, on the other with the street, 
— “I fear all will be detected. Hush ! Adam and the 
iron coffer that contains the precious papers have been 
conducted to Edward’s presence. A terrible explosion, 
possibly connected with the contrivance, caused such 
confusion among the guards, that Hugh escaped to scare 
me with his news. Stationed near the gate in this dis- 
guise, I ventured to enter the court-yard, and saw — saw 
— the Tormentor I — the torturer — the hideous, masked, 
minister of agony, led towards the chambers in which 
our hapless messenger is examined by the ruthless tyrants. 
Gloucester, the lynx-eyed mannikin, is there !” 

“O Margaret, my queen!” exclaimed the lady of 
Tiongueville, “the papers will reveal her whereabout,” 


284 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


“ No — she is safe ! ” returned Hilyard ; but thy poor 
scholar, I tremble for him, and for the heads of all whom 
the papers name.’’ 

“ What can be done ! Ha I Lord Hastings is here — 
he is ever humane and pitiful. Dare we confide in him ? ” 

A bright gleam shot over Hilyard’s face. “Yes — 
yes ; let me confer with him alone. I wait him here — 
quick I ” 

The lady hastened back. Hastings was conyersing in 
a low voice with Sibyll. The dame of Longueville whis- 
pered in the courtier’s ear, drew him into the hall, and 
left him alone with the false friar, who had drawn the 
cowl over his face. 

“ Lord Hastings,” said Hilyard, speaking rapidly, 
“you are in danger, if not of loss of life, of loss of favor. 
You gave a passport to one Warner to see the ex-king 
Henry. Warner’s simplicity (for he is. innocent) hath 
been duped — he is made the bearer of secret intelligence 
from the unhappy gentlemen who still cling to the Lan- 
caster cause. He is suspected, — he is examined — he may 
be questioned by the torture. If the treason be disco- 
vered, it was thy hand that signed the passport — the 
queen, thou knowest, hates thee — the Woodvilles thirst 
for thy downfall. What handle may this give them ! Fly, 
my lord — fly to the Tower — thou mayst yet be in time — 
thy wit can screen all that may otherwise be bare. Save 
this poor scholar — conceal this correspondence. — Hark 
ye, lord ! frown not so haughtily — that correspondence 
names thee as one who has taken the gold of Count 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


285 


Charolois, and whom, therefore, King Louis may outbuy. 
Look to thyself I ” 

A slight blush passed over the pale brow of the great 
statesman, but he answered with a steady voice, '' Friar 
or layman, I care not which, the gold of the heir of Bur- 
gundy was a gift, not a bribe. But I need no threats to 
save, if not too late, from rack and gibbet, the life of a 
guiltless man. I am gone. Hold ! bid the maiden, the 
scholar’s daughter, follow me to the Tower.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

How the destructive organ of Prince Richard promises goodlj 
development. 

The Duke of Gloucester approached Adam as he stood 
gazing on his model. “ Old man,” said the prince, touch- 
ing him with the point of his sheathed dagger, “ look up 
and answer. What converse hast thou held with Henry 
of Windsor, and who commissioned thee to visit him in 
his confinement ? Speak, and the truth ! for by Holy 
Paul, I am one who can detect a lie, and without that 
door stands — the Tormentor!” 

Upon a pleasing and joyous dream broke these harsh 
words ; for Adam then was full of the contrivance by 
which to repair the defect of the engine ; and with this 
suggestion was blent confusedly the thought, tliat he was 
now protected by royalty, that he should have means and 


286 


THE LAST or THE BARONd. 


leisure to accomplish his great design, that he should 
have friends whose power could obtain its adoption by 
the king. He raised his eyes, and that young dark face 
frowned upon him — the child menacing the sage — brute 
force in a pigmy shape, having authority of life and death 
over the giant strength of genius. But these words, which 
recalled Warner from his existence as philosopher, woke 
that of the gentle, but brave and honorable man which 
he was, when reduced to earth. 

“Sir,” he said, gravely, “if I have consented to hold 
converse with the unhappy, it was not as the tell-tale and 
the espier. I had formal warrant for my visit, and I was 
solicited to render it by an early friend and comrade, who 
sought to be my benefactor in aiding with gold my poor 
studies for the king’s people.” 

“ Tut ! ” said Richard, impatiently, and playing with 
his dagger-hilt; “thy words, stealthy and evasive, prove 
thy guilt ! Sure am I that this iron traitor, with its in- 
tricate hollows and recesses, holds what, unless confessed, 
will give thee to the hangman ! Confess all, and thou 
art spared.” 

“If,” said Adam, mildly, “your highness— for though 
I know not your quality, I opine that no one less than 
royal could so menace ; if your highness imagines that I 
have been intrusted by a fallen man, wrong me not by 
supposing that I could fear death more than dishonor; 
for certes ! ” (continued Adam, with innocent pedantry) 
“ to put the case scholastically, and in the logic familiar, 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 28t 

doubtless, to your highness, either I have something to 

confess, or I have not — if I have 

“ Hound I ’’ interrupted the prince, stamping his foot, 
“ thinkest thou to banter me — see I ” As his foot shook 
the floor, the door opened, and a man with his arms bare, 
covered from head to foot in a black gown of serge, with 
his features concealed by a hideous mask, stood ominously 
at the aperture. 

The prince motioned to the torturer (or tormentor, as 
he v/as technically styled) to approach, which he did 
noiselessly, till he stood, tall, grim, and lowering, beside 
Adam, like some silent and devouring monster by its 
prey. 

“ Dost thou repent thy contumacy ? — A moment, and 
I render my questioning to another I ” 

“ Sir,” said Adam, drawing himself up, and with so 
sudden a change of mien, that his loftiness almost awed 
even the dauntless Richard — “ Sir, m[y fathers feared not 
death when they did battle for the throne of England ; 
and why ? — because in their loyal valor they placed not 
the interests of a mortal man, but the cause of imperish- 
able honor I And though their son be a poor scholar, 
and wears not the spurs of gold — though his frame be 
weak and his hairs grey, he loveth honor also well eno’ 
to look without dread on death ! ” 

Fierce and ruthless, when irritated and opposed, as the 
prince was, he was still in his first youth — ambition had 
here no motive fo harden him into stone. He was na- 
turally so brave himself that bravery could not fail to 


288 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


win from him something of respect and sympathy, and 
he was taken wholly by surprise on hearing the language 
of a knight and hero from one whom he had regarded 
but as the artful impostor or the despicable intriguer. 

He changed countenance as Warner spoke, and re- 
mained a moment silent. Then as a thought occurred 
to him, at which his features relaxed into a half-smile — 
he beckoned to the tormentor — said a word in his ear — 
and the horrible intruder nodded and withdrew. 

“ Master Warner,” then said the prince, in his custom- 
ary sweet and gliding tones — “it were a pity that so 
gallant a gentleman should be exposed to peril for adhe- 
sion to a cause that can never prosper, and that would 
be fatal, could it prosper, to our common country. For 
look you, this Margaret, who is now, we believe, in Lon- 
don ” (here he examined Adam’s countenance, which 
evinced surprise), “ this Margaret, who is seeking to re- 
kindle the brand and brennen of civil war, has already 
sold for base gold, to the enemy of the realm, to 
Louis XI., that very Calais which your fathers, doubt- 
less, lavished their blood to annex to our possessions. 
Shame on the lewd harlot ! What woman so bloody and 
so dissolute ? What man so feeble and craven as her 
lord ? ” 

“Alas! sir,” said Adam — “I am unfitted for these 
high considerations of state. I live but for my art, and 
in it. And now, behold how my kingdom is shaken and 
rent ! ” he pointed with so touching a'smile, and so sim- 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


289 


pie a sadness, to the broken engine, that Richard was 
moved. 

“ Thou lovest this, thy toy ? I can comprehend that 
love for some dumb thing that we have toiled for. Ay I ” 
continued the prince thoughtfully — “ay I I have noted 
myself in life, that there are objects, senseless as that 
mould of iron, which, if we labor at them, wind round 
our hearts as if they were flesh and blood. So some 
men love learning, others glory, others power. Well, 
man, thou lovest that mechanical ? How many years 
hast thou been about it?” 

“ From the first to the last, twenty-five years, and it is 
still incomplete.” 

“IJm I” said the prince, smiling — “Master Warner, 
thou hast read of the judgment of Solomon — how the 
wise king discovered the truth by ordering the child’s 
death. ” 

“ It was indeed,” said Adam, unsuspectingly — “a 
most shrewd suggestion of native wit and clerkly wis- 
dom.” 

“Glad am I thou approvest it. Master Warner,” said 
Richard. And as he spoke, the tormentor re-appeared 
with a smith, armed with the implements of his trade. 

“ Good smith, break into pieces this stubborn iron ; 
bare all its receptacles ; leave not one fragment standing 
on the other 1 Delenda est tua Carthago, Master War- 
ner. There is Latin in answer to thy logic.” 

It is impossible to convey any notion of tlie terror, the 
rage, the despair, which seized upon the unhappy sage 

1—25 


T 


290 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

when these words smote his ear, and he saw the smith’s 
brawny arms swing on high the ponderous hammer. He 
flung himself between the murderous stroke and his be- 
loved model. He embraced the grim iron tightly. “ Kill 
me.'” he exclaimed, sublimely, “kill me ! — not my 

THOUGHT I ” 

“ Solomon was verily and indeed a wise king,” said the 
duke, with a low inward latigh. “ And now, man, I have 
thee ! To save thy infant — thine art’s hideous infant — ^ 
confess the whole I ” 

It was then that a fierce struggle evidently took place 
in Adam’s bosom. It was, perhaps — 0 reader ! thou 
whom pleasure, love, ambition, hatred, avarice, in thine 
and our ordinary existence, tempt — it was, perhaps, to 
him the one arch-temptation of a life. In the changing 
countenance, the heaving breast, the trembling lip, the 
eyes that closed and opened to close again, as if to shut 
out the unworthy weakness — yea, in the whole physical 
man — was seen the crisis of the mortal struggle. And 
what, in truth, to him, an Edward or a Henry, a Lan- 
caster or a York? Nothing. But still that instinct, 
that principle, that conscience, ever strongest in those 
whose eyes are accustomed to the search of truth, pre- 
vailed. So he rose suddenly and quietly, drew himself 
apart, left his work to the Destroyer, and said — 

“ Prince, thou art a boy ! Let a boy’s voice annihilate 
that which should have served all time. Strike I ” 

Richard motioned — the hammer descended- -the engine 
and its appurtenances reeled, and crashed — the doors 


THE LAST or THE BARONS. 291 

flew open — the wheels rattled- — the sparks flew. And 
Adam Warner fell to the ground, as if the blow had 
broken his own heart. Little heeding the insensible vic- 
tim of his hard and cunning policy, Richard advanced to 
the inspection of the interior recesses of the machinery. 
But that which promised Adam’s destruction, saved him. 
The heavy stroke had battered in the receptacle of the 
documents — had buried them in the layers of iron. The 
faithful Eureka, even amidst its injuries and wrecks, pre- 
served the secret of its master. 

The prince, with impatient hands, explored all the 
apertures yet revealed, and after wasting many minutes 
in a fruitless search, was about to bid the smith complete 
the work of destruction, when the door suddenly opened 
and Lord Hastings entered. His quick eye took in the 
whole scene — he arrested the lifted arm of the smith, 
and passing deliberately to Gloucester, said with a pro- 
found reverence, but a half-reproachful smile, “ My lord I 
my lord ! your highness is indeed severe upon my poor 
scholar.” 

“ Canst thou answer for thy scholar’s loyalty ? ” said 
the duke, gloomily. 

Hastings drew the prince aside, and said, in a low 
tone, “ His loyalty ! poor man, I know not ; but bis 
guilelessness, surely, yes. Look you, sweet prince, I 
know the interest thou hast in keeping well with the Earl 
of Warwick, whom I. in sooth, have slight cause to love. 
Thou hast trusted me with thy young liopes of the Lady 
Anne ; tins new Nevile placed about tlie king, and whoso 


292 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


fortunes Warwick bath made his care, hath, I have reason 
to think, some love passages with the scholar’s daughter 
; — the daughter came to me for the passport. Shall this 
Marmaduke Nevile have it to say to his fair kinswoman, 
with the unforgiving malice of a lover’s memory, that 
the princely Gloucester stooped to be the torturer of you 
poor old man ? If there be treason in the scholar, or iu 
yon battered craft-work, leave the search to me.” 

The duke raised his dark, penetrating eyes to those of 

Hastings, which did not quail. For here world-genius 

* 

encountered world-genius, and art, art. 

“ Thine argument hath more subtlety and circumlocu- 
tion than suit with simple truth,” said the prince, smiling. 
“But it is enough to Richard that Hastings wills protec- 
tion even to a spy I ” 

Hastings kissed the duke’s hand in silence, and going 
to the door, he disappeared a moment and returned with 
Sibyll. As she entered, pale and trembling, Adam rose, 
and the girl with a wild cry flew to his bosom. 

“ It is a winsome face, Hastings,” said the duke, drily. 
“I pity Master Nevile the lover, and envy my Lord 
Chamberlain the protector.” 

Hastings laughed, for he was well pleased that Richard’s 
suspicion took that turn. 

“And now,” he said, “I suppose Master Nevile and 
the Duchess of Bedford’s page may enter. Your guard 
stopped them hitherto. They come for this gentleman 
from lier highness the queen’s mother.” 


THE LAST OF THK BARONS. 


293 


“Enter, Master ISTevile, and you, Sir Page. What is 
your errand ? ’’ 

“ My lady, the duchess,” said the page, has sent rae to 
conduct Master Warner to the apartments prepared for 
him as her special multiplier and alchemist.” 

“ What ! ” said the prince, who, unlike the irritable 
Clarence, made it his policy to show all decorous homage 
to the queen’s kin ; “ hath that illustrious lady taken this 
gentleman into her service ? Why announced you not. 
Master Warner, what at once had saved you from further 
questioning ? Lord Hastings, I thank you now for your 
intercession.” 

Hastings, in answer, pointed archly at Marmaduke, 
who, was aiding Sibyll to support her father. “Do you 
suspect me still, prince ? ” he whispered. 

The duke shrugged his shoulders, and Adam, breaking 
from Marmaduke and Sibyll, passed with tottering steps 
to the shattered labor of his solitary life. He looked at 
the ruin with mournful despondence, with quivering lips. 
“Have you done with me?” then he said, bowing his 
head lowlily, for his pride was gone— “may we — that is, 
I and this, my poor device, withdraw from your palace ? 
I see we are not fit for kings ! ” 

“ Say not so,” said the young duke, gently ; “ we have 
now convinced ourselves of our error, and I crave thy 
pardon. Master Warner, for my harsh dealings. As for 
this, thy toy, the king’s workmen shall set it right for 
thee. Smith, call the fellows yonder, to help bear this to 

” He paused, and glanced at Hastings. 

25 * 


294 TKE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

“To my apartments,” said the Chamberlain. “ Your 
highness may be sure that I will there inspect it. Fear 
not, Master Warner ; no further harm shall chance to thy 
contrivance.” 

“ Come, sir, forgive me,” said the duke. With gracious 
affability the young prince held out his hand, the fingers 
of which sparkled with costly gems, to the old man. The 
old man bowed as if his beard would have swept the 
earth, but he did not touch the hand. He seemed still 
in a state between dream and reason, life and death : he 
moved not, spoke not, till the men came to bear the model ; 
and he then followed it, his arms folded in his gown, till, 
on entering the court, it was borne in a contrary direction 
from his own, to the Chamberlain’s apartment ; then 
wistfully pursuing it with his eyes, he uttered such a sigh 
as might have come from a resigned father losing the last 
glimpse of a beloved son. 

Richard hesitated a moment, loth to relinquish his re- 
search, and doubtful whether to follow the Eureka for 
renewed investigation ; but, partly unwilling to compro- 
mise his dignity in the eyes of Hastings, should his suspi- 
cions prove unfounded, and partly indisposed to risk the 
displeasure of the vindictive Duchess of Bedford by fur- 
ther molestation of one now under her protection, he 
reluctantly trusted all further inquiry to the well-known 
loyalty of Hastings. 

“If Margaret be in London,” he muttered to himself 
as he turned slowly away, “now is the time to seize and 


/ 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


295 


cnain the lioness ! Ho, Catesby, — hither (a valuable 
man that Catesby — a lawyer’s nurturing with a blood- 
hound’s nature !) — Catesby, while King Edward rides 
for pleasure, let thou and I track the scent of his foes. 
If the she-wolf of Anjou hath ventured hither, she hides 
in some convent or monastery, be sure. See to our pal- 
freys, Catesby I Strange,” (added the prince, muttering 
to himself), “ that I am more restless to guard the crown 
than he who wears it I Nay, a crown is a goodly heir- 
loom in a man’s family, and a fair sight to see near — and 
near — and near ” 

The prince abruptly paused, opened and shut his right 
hand convulsively, and drew a long sigh. 


BOOK FOURTH. 


INTRIGUES OF THE COURT OF EDWARD IV. 


CHAPTER I. 

Margaret of Anjou. 

The day after the events recorded in the last section 
of this narrative, and about the hour of noon, Robert 
Hilyard (still in the reverend disguise in which he had 
accosted Hastings) bent his way through the labyrinth 
of alleys that wound in dingy confusion from the Chepe 
towards the river. 

The purlieus of the Thames, in that day of ineffective 
police, sheltered many who either lived upon plunder, or 
sought abodes that proffered, at alarm, the facility of 
flight. Here, sauntering in twos or threes, or lazily re- 
clined by the thresholds of plaster huts, might be seen 
that refuse population which is the unholy offspring of 
civil war — disbanded soldiers of either Rose, too inured 
to violence and strife for peaceful employment, and ready 
for any enterprise by which keen steel wins bright gold. 
At length, our friend stopped before the gate of a small 

( 296 ) 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


291 


house, on the very marge of the river, which belonged to 
one of the many religious orders then existing ; but from 
its site and aspect, denoted the poverty seldom their 
characteristic. Here he knocked ; the door was opened 
by a lay-brother ; a sign and a smile were interchanged, 
and the visitor was ushered into a room belonging to the 
superior, but given up for the last few days to a foreign 
priest, to whom the whole community appeared to con- 
sider the reverence of a saint was due. And yet this 
priest, who, seated alone, by a casement which com- 
manded a partial view of the distant Tower of London, 
received the conspirator, was clad in the humblest serge. 
His face was smooth and delicate ; and the animation of 
the aspect, the vehement impatience of the gesture, 
evinced little of the holy calm that should belong to 
those who have relinquished the affairs of earth for medi- 
tation on the things of heaven. To this personage, the 
sturdy Hilyard bowed his manly knees ; and casting him- 
self at the priest’s feet, his eyes, his countenance, changed 
from their customary hardihood and recklessness, into an 
expression at once of reverence and of pity. 

“ Well, man — well, friend — good friend, tried and 
leal friend — speak ! speak I ” exclaimed the priest, in an 
accent that plainly revealed a foreign birth. 

“ Oh ! gracious lady ! all hope is over : I come to bid 
you fly. Adam Warner was brought before the usurper; 
he escaped, indeed, the torture, and was faithful to the 
trust. But the papers — the secret of the rising, —are 
in the bands of Hastings." 


298 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

How loLg, O Lord,” said Margaret of Anjou, for 
she it was, under that reverend disguise, “how long wilt 
thou delay the hour of triumph and revenge ? ” 

The princess, as she spoke, had suffered her head to 
fall back, and her pale, commanding countenance, so well 
fitted to express fiery and terrible emotion, wore that 
aspect in which many a sentenced man had read his 
doom ; an aspect the more fearful, inasmuch as the pas- 
sion that pervaded it did not distort the features, but 
left them locked, rigid, and marble-like in beauty, as the 
head of the Medusa. 

“ The day will dawn at last,” said Hilyard, “ but the 
judgments of Heaven are slow. We are favored, at the 
least, that our secret is confined to a man more merciful 
than his tribe.” He then related to Margaret his inter- 
view with Hastings, at the house of Lady Longueville, 
and continued : — “ This morning, not an hour since, I 
sought him (for last evening he did not leave Edward — 
a council met at the Tower), and learned that he had 
detected the documents in the recesses of Warner’s en- 
gine. Knowing from your highness and your spies, that 
he had been open to the gifts of Charolois, I spoke to him 
plainly of the guerdon that should await his silence. 
‘Friar,’ he answered, ‘if in this court and this world I 
have found that it were a fool’s virtue to be more pure 
than others, and if I know that I should but provoke the 
wrath of those who profit by Burgundian gold, were I 
alone to disdain its glitter; I have still eno’ of my younger 
conscience left me not to make barter of human tiosh 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 299 

Did I give these papers to King Edward, the heads of 
fifty gallant men, whose error is but loyalty to tneir 
ancient sovereign, would glut the doomsman. But,’ he 
continued, ‘ I am yet true to my king and his cause ; I 
shall know how to advise Edward to the frustrating all 
your schemes. The districts where you hoped a rising 
will be guarded, the men ye count upon will be watched ; 
the Duke of Gloucester, whose vigilance never sleeps, 
has learned that the Lady Margaret is in England, dis- 
guised as a priest. To-morrow all the religious houses 
will be searched ; if thou knowest where she lies con- 
cealed, bid her lose not an hour to fly.’” 

“ I will NOT fly !” exclaimed Margaret; “let Edward, 
if he dare, proclaim to my people that their queen is in 
her city of London. Let him send his hirelings to seize 
'ler. Not in this dress shall she be found. In robes of 
tate, the sceptre in her hand, shall they drag the consort 
of their king to the prison-house of her palace.” 

“ On my knees, great, queen, I implore you to be calm ; 
with the loss of your liberty ends indeed all hope of vic- 
tory, all chance even of struggle. Think not Edward’s 
fears would leave to Margaret the life that his disdain 
has spared to your royal spouse. Between your prison 
and your grave, but one secret and bloody step ! Be ruled ; 
no time to lose ! My trusty Hugh, even now, waits with 
his boat below. Relays of horses are ready, night and 
day, to bear you to the coast ; while seeking your resto- 
ration, I have never neglected the facilities for flight. 
Pause not, O gracious lady ; let not your son say — ‘My 


300 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


mother’s passion has lost me the hope of my grandslre’s 
crown.’ ” 

“ My boy, my princely boy, my Edward ! ” exclaimed 
Margaret, bursting into tears, all the warrior- queen 
merged in the remembrance of the fond mother. “ Ah I 
faithful friend ! he is so gallant and so beautiful I Oh, 
he shall reward thee well hereafter!” 

“May he live to crush these barons, and raise this 
people ! ” said the demagogue of Redesdale. “ But now, 
save thyself.” 

“But what! — is it not possible yet to strike the 
blow ! Rather let us spur to the north — rather let us 
hasten the hour of action, and raise the Red Rose through 
the length and breadth of England ! ” 

“Ah, lady, if without warrant from your lord — if 
without foreign subsidies — if without having yet ripened 
the time — if without gold, without arms, and without 
one great baron on our side, we forestall a rising, all that 
w^e have gained is lost ; and instead of war, you can 
scarcely provoke a riot. But for this accursed alliance 
of Edward’s daughter with the brother of the icy-hearted 
Louis, our triumph had been secure. The French king’s 
gold would have manned a camp, bribed the discontented 
lords, and his support have sustained the hopes of the 
more leal Lancastrians. But it is in vain to deny, that 
if Lord Warwick wdn Louis ” 

“ He will not ! — he shall not ! — Louis, mine own 
kinsman ! ” exclaimed Margaret, in a voice in which the 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 30. 

anguish pierced through the louder tone of resentment 
and disdain. 

“ Let us hope that he will not,” replied Hiljard, sooth- 
ingly ; “ some chance may yet break off these nuptials, 
and once more give us France as our firm ally. But 
now we must be patient. Already Edward is fast w'ear- 
ing away the gloss of his crown — already the great lords 
desert his court — already, in the rural provinces, peasant 
and franklin complain of the exactions of his minions — 
already the mighty house of Nevile frowns sullen on the 
throne it built. Another year, and who knows but the 
Earl of Warwick — the beloved and the fearless — whose 
statesman-art alone hath severed from you the arms and 
aid of France — ^ at whose lifted finger all England w ould 
bristle with armed men — may ride by the side of Mar- 
garet through the gates of London ? ” 

“Evil-omened consoler, never 1 ” exclaimed the princess, 
starting to her feet, with eyes that literally shot fire. 
“ Thinkest thou that the spirit of a queen lies in me so 
low and crushed, that I, the descendant of Charlemagne, 
could forgive the wrongs endured from Warwick and his 
father ? But thou, though wise and loved, art of the Com- 
mon® • thou knowest not how they feel through whose 
veins rolls the blood of kings I ” 

A dark and cold shade fell over the bold face of Robin 
of Redesdale at these words. 

“Ah, lady,” he said, with bitterness, “if no misfortune 
can curb thy ])ride, in vain would we rebuild thy throne. 
It is these Commons, Margaret of Anjou — these English 
I.— 2C 


302 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


Commons — this Saxon People, that can alone secure to 
thee the holding of the realm which the right arm wins. 
And, beshrew me, much as I love thy cause — much as 
thou hast, with thy sorrows and princely beauty, glamoured 
and spelled my heart and hand — ay, so that I, the son 
of a Lollard, forget the wrongs the Lollards sustained 
from the House of Lancaster — so that I, who have seen 
the glorious fruitage of a Republic, yet labor for thee, to 
overshadow the land with the throne of one — yet — yet, 
lady — yet, if I thought thou wert to be the same Mar- 
garet as of old, looking back to thy dead kings, and 
contemptuous of thy living people, I would not bid one 
mother’s son lift lance or bill on thy behalf.” 

So resolutely did Robin of Redesdale utter these 
words, that the queen’s haughty eye fell abashed as he 
spoke ; and her craft, or her intellect, which was keen 
and prompt where her passions did not deafen and blind 
her judgment, instantly returned to her. Few women 
equalled this once idol of knight and minstrel, in the sub- 
duing fascination that she could exert in her happier 
moments. Her affability was as gracious as her wrath 
was savage ; and with a dignified and winning frankness, 
she extended her hand to her ally, as she answered, in a 
sweet, humble, womanly, and almost penitent voice 

“ 0, bravest and lealest of friends, forgive thy wretched 
queen. Her troubles distract her brain, chide her not if 
they sour her speech. Saints above ! will ye not pardon 
Margaret, if at times her nature be turned from the 
motlier’s milk into streams of gall and bloody purpose 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


303 


when ye see, from your homes serene, in what a world 
of strife and falsehood her very womanhood hath grown 
unsexed I ” She paused a moment, and her uplifted eyes 
shed tears fast and large. Then, with a sigh, she turned 
to Hilyard, and resumed more calmly — “Yes, thou art 
right — adversity hath taught me much. And though 
adversity will too often but feed and not starve our pride, 
yet thou — thou hast made me know that there is more 
of true nobility in the blunt Children of the People, than 
in many a breast over which flows the kingly robe. 
Forgive me, and the daughter of Charlemagne shall yet 
be a mother to the Commons, who claim thee as their 
brother 1 ” 

Thoroughly melted, Robin of Redesdale bowed over 
the hand held to his lips, and his rough voice trembled 
as he answered — though that answer took but the shape 
of prayer. 

“ And now,’^ said the princess, smiling, “ to make 
peace lasting between us; — I conquer myself — I yield 
to thy counsels. Once more the fugitive, I abandon the 
city that contains Henry’s unheeded prison. See, I am 
ready. Who will know Margaret in this attire? Lead 
on ! ” 

Rejoiced to seize advantage of this altefed and sub- 
missive mood, Robin instantly took the way through a 
narrow passage, to a small door communicating with the 
river. There Hugh was waiting in a small boat, moored 
to the damp and discolored stairs. 

Robin, by a gesture, checked the plan’s impulse to 


304 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


throw himself at the feet of the pretended priest, and 
Dade him put forth his best speed. The princess seated 
herself by the helm, and the little boat cut rapidly 
through the noble stream. Galleys, gay and gilded, with 
armorial streamers, and filled with nobles and gallants, 
passed them, noisy with mirth or music, on their way. 
These the fallen sovereign heeded not ; but, with all her 
faults, the woman’s heart beating in her bosom — she 
who, in prosperity, had so often wrought ruin, and shame, 
and woe to her gentle lord ; she who had been reckless 
of her trust as queen, and incurred grave — but, let us 
charitably hope, unjust — suspicion, of her faith as wife, 
still fixed her eyes on the gloomy tower that contained 
her captive husband, and felt that she could have for- 
gotten awhile even the loss of power, if but permitted to 
fall on that plighted heart, and weep over the past with 
the woe-worn bridegroom of her youth. 


CHAPTER II. 

In which are laid open to the Reader the character of Edward the 
Fourth and, that of his Court, with the Machinations of the 
Woodvilles against the Earl of Warwick. 

Scarcely need it be said to those who have looked 
with some philosophy upon human life, that the young 
existence of Master Marmadiike Nevile, once fairly 
merged in the great coiniiion sea, will rarely reappear 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


300 


before us individualized and distinct. The type of the 
provincial cadet of the day, hastening courtwards to seek 
his fortune, he becomes lost amidst the gigantic charac- 
ters and fervid passions that alone stand forth in history. 
And as, in reading biography, we first take interest in 
the individual who narrates, but if his career shall pass 
into that broader and more stirring life, in which he 
mingles with men who have left a more dazzling memory 
than his own, we find the interest change from the narra- 
tor to those by whom he is surrounded and eclipsed, — so, 
in this record of a time, we scarce follow our young ad- 
venturer into the court of the brilliant Edward, ere the 
scene itself allures and separates us from our guide ; his 
mission is, as it were, well-nigh done. We leave, then, for 
a while, this bold, frank nature — fresh from the healtli 
of the rural life — gradually to improve, or deprave itself, 
in the companionship it finds. The example of the Lords 
Hastings, Scales, and Worcester, and the accomplish- 
ments of the two younger Princes of York, especially 
the Duke of Gloucester, had diffused among the younger 
and gayer part of the court that growing taste for letters 
which had somewhat slept during the dynasty of the 
House of Lancaster ; and Marmaduke’s mind became 
aware that learning was no longer the peculiar distinction 
of the church, and that Warwick was behind his age 
when he boasted “ that the sword was more familiar to 
him than the pen.” He had the sagacity to perceive 
that the alliance with the great earl did not conduce to 
his popularity at court; and, even in the king’s presence, 
26 * 


u 


306 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


the oonrtiers permitted themselves many taunts and jests 
at tne fiery Warwick, which they would have bitten out 
their tongues ere they would have vented before the earl 
himself. But, though the Nevile sufficiently controlled 
his native candor not to incur unprofitable quarrel by ill- 
mannered and unseasonable defence of the hero-baron, 
when sneered at or assailed, he had enough of the soldier 
and the man in him not to be tainted by the envy of the 
time and place — not to lose his gratitude to his patron, 
nor his respect for the bulwark of the country. Rather, . 
it may be said, that Warwick gained in his estimation 
whenever compared with the gay and silken personages 
w'ho avenged themselves by words for his superiority in 
deeds. Not only as a soldier, but as a statesman, the 
great and peculiar merits of the earl were visible in all 
those measures which etnanated solely from himself. 
Though so indifferently educated, his busy, practical 
career, his affable mixing with all classes, and his hearty, 
national sympathies, made him so well acquainted with 
the interests of his country and the habits of his country- 
men, that he was far more fitted to rule than the scientific 
Worcester or the learned Scales. The young duke of 
Gloucester presented a marked contrast to the general 
levity of the court, in speaking of this powerful nobleman. 
He never named him but with respect, and was pointedly 
courteous to even the humblest member of the earPs 
family. In this he appeared to advantage by the side of 
Clarence, whose weakness of disposition made him take 
the tone of the society in which he was thrown, and who, 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 307 

while really loving Warwick, often smiled at the jests 
against him — not, indeed, if uttered by the queen or her 
family, of whom he ill concealed his jealousy and hatred. 

The whole court was animated and pregnant with a 
spirit of intrigue, which the artful cunning of the queen, 
the astute policy of Jacquetta, and the animosity of the 
different factions had fomented, to a degree quite unknown 
under former reigns. It was a place in which the wit of 
young men grew old rapidly : amidst stratagem, and plot, 
and ambitious design, and stealthy overreaching, the boy- 
hood of Richard III. passed to its relentless manhood : 
such is the inevitable fruit of that era in civilization when 
a martial aristocracy first begins to merge into a volup- 
tuous court. 

Through this moving and shifting web of ambition and 
intrigue the royal Edward moved with a careless grace : 
simple himself, because his object was won, and pleasure 
had supplanted ambition. His indolent, joyous temper, 
served to deaden his powerful intellect ; or, rather, his 
intellect was now lost in the sensual stream through which 
it downed. Ever in pursuit of some new face, his schemes 
and counter-schemes were limited to cheat a husband or 
deceive a wife ; and dexterous and successful, no doubt, 
they were. But a vice always more destructive than the 
love of women began also to reign over him, — viz., the 
intemperance of the table. The fastidious and graceful 
epicurism of the early Normans, inclined to dainties but 
abhorring excess, and regarding with astonished disdain 
the heavy meals and deep draughts of the Saxon, had 


308 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


long ceased to characterize the offspring of that noblest 
of all noble races. Warwick, whose stately manliness 
was disgusted with whatever savored of effeminacy or 
debauch, used to declare that he would rather fight fifty 
battles for Edward IV. than once sup with him ! Feasts 
were prolonged for hours, and the banquets of this king 
of the Middle Ages almost resembled those of the later 
Roman emperors. The Lord Montagu did not share the 
abstemiousness of his brother of Warwick. He was, next 
to Hastings, the king’s chosen and most favorite com. 
panion. He ate almost as much as the king, and drank 
very little less. Of few courtiers could the same be said ! 
Over the lavish profligacy and excess of the court, how- 
ever, a veil, dazzling to the young and high-spirited, was 
throw'n. Edward was thoroughly the cavalier, deeply 
imbued with the romance of chivalry, and, while making 
the absolute woman his plaything, always treated the 
ideal woman as a goddess. A refined gallantry a de- 

ferential courtesy to dame and demoiselle — united the 
language of an Amadis with the licentiousness of a Gaolor ; 
and a far more alluring contrast than the court of Charles 
II. presented to the grim Commonwealth, seduced the 
vulgar in that of this most brave and most beautiful 
prince, when compared with the mournful and lugubrious 
circles in which Henry VI. had reigned and prayed. 
Edward himself, too, it was so impossible to judge with 
severe justice, that his extraordinary popularity in Lon- 
don, where he was daily seen, was never diminished bj 
his faults ; he was so bold in the field, yet so mild in tho 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


309 


cnamber ; when liis passions slept, he was so thoroughly 
good-natured and social — so kind to all about his person 
— so hearty and gladsome in his talk and in his vices — 
so magnificent and so generous withal ; and, despite his 
indolence, his capacities for business were marvellous — 
and these last commanded the reverence of the good 
Londoners ; he often administered justice himself, like 
the caliphs of the East, and with great acuteness and 
address. Like most extravagant men, he had a whole- 
some. touch of avarice. That contempt for commerce 
which characterizes a modern aristocracy was little felt 
by the nobles of that day, with the exception of such 
blunt patricians as Lord Warwick or Raoul de Fulke. 
The great house of De la Pole (Duke of Suffolk), the 
heir of which married Edward’s sister, Elizabeth, had 
been founded by a merchant of Hull. Earls and arch- 
bishops scrupled not to derive revenues from what we 
should now esteem the literal resources of trade.* No 

* The Abbot of St. Afbans (temp. Henry III.) was a vendor of 
Yarmouth bloaters. The Cistercian Monks were wool-merchants ; 
and Mncpherson tells us of a couple of Iceland bishops who got a 
license from Henry VI. for smuggling. (Matthew Paris, Macpher 
son’s “ Annals of Commerce,” 10.) As the Whig historians gene- 
rally have thought fit to consider the Lancastrian cause the more 
^^liberar of the two, because Henry IV. was the popular choice, 
and, in fact, an elected, not an hereditary king, so it cannot be too 
emphatically repeated, that the accession of Edward IV. was the 
.success of two new and two highly popular principles — the one, 
that of church reform, the other, that of commercial calculation. 
All that immen.se section, almost a majority of the people, who had 
been persecuted by the Lancastrian kings as Lollards, revenged on 
Henry the aggrieved rights of religious toleration. On the other 


310 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


house had ever shown itself on this point more liberal in 
its policy, more free from feudal prejudices, than that of 
the Plantagenets. Even Edward II. was tenacious of 
the commerce with Genoa, and an intercourse with the 
merchant princes of that republic probably served to 
associate the pursuits of commerce with the notion of 
rank and power. Edward III. is still called the Father 
of English Commerce ; but Edward lY. carried the 
theories of his ancestors into far more extensive practice, 
for his own personal profit. This king, so indolent in 
the palace, was literally the most active merchant in the 
mart. He traded largely in ships of his own, freighted 

hand, though Henry IV., who was immeasurably superior to his 
warlike son in intellect and statesmanship, had favored the grow- 
ing commercial spirit, it had received nothing but injury under 
Henry V., and little better than contempt under Henry VI. The 
accession of the Yorkists was, then, on two grounds, a great popu- 
lar movement ; and it was followed by a third advantage to the 
popular cause — viz., in the determined desire both of Edward and 
Richard III. to destroy the dangerous influence of the old feudal 
aristocracy. To this end Edward labored in the creation of a court 
noblesse ; and Richard, with the more dogged resolution that be- 
longed to him, went at once to the root of the feudal power, in 
forbidding the nobles to give badges and liveries ; (a) in other words, 
to appropriate armies under the name of retainers. Henry VIII., 
in short, did not originate the policy for which he has monopolized 
the credit; he did but steadily follow out the theory of raising the 
middle class and humbling the baronials, which the House of York 
first put into practice. 


a This also was forbidden, it is true, by the edict of Edward IV., 
as well as by his predecessors from the reign of Richard II., but 
no king seems to have had the courage to enforce the prohibition 
before Richard III. 


THK LAST OF THE BARONS. 


311 


with liis own goods ; and though, according to sound 
modern CBConomics, this was anything but an aid to com- 
merce, seeing that no private merchant could compete 
with a royal trader, who went out and came in duty-free, 
yet certainly the mere companionship and association in 
risk and gain, and the common conversation that it made 
between the affable monarch and the homeliest trader, 
served to increase his popularity, and to couple it with 
respect for practical sense. Edward lY. was in all this 
pre-eminently the Man of his Age — not an inch behind 
it or before ! And, in addition to this happy position, 
he was one of those darlings of Nature, so affluent and 
blest in gifts of person, mind, and outward show, that it 
is only at the distance of posterity we ask why men of 
his own age admired the false, the licentious, and the 
cruel, where those contemporaries, over-dazzled, saw but 
the heroic and the joyous, the young, the beautiful, — the 
affable to friend, and the terrible to foe I 

It was necessary to say thus much on the commercial 
tendencies of Edward, because, at this epoch, they 
operated greatly, besides other motives shortly to be 
made clear, in favor of the plot laid by the enemies of the 
Earl of Warwick, to dishonor that powerful minister, 
and drive him from the councils of the king. 

One morning Hastings received a summons to attend 
Edward, and, on entering the royal chamber, he found 
ul ready assembled. Lord Rivers, the queen’s father, 
Anthony Woodville, and the Earl of Worcester. 

The king seemed thoughtful ; he beckoned Hastings 


312 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

to approach, and placed in his hand a letter, dated from 
Rouen. “ Read, and judge, Hastings,” said Edward. 

The letter was from a gentleman in Warwick’s train. 
It gave a glowing account of the honors accorded to the 
earl by Louis XL, greater than those ever before mani- 
fested to a subject, and proceeded thus ; — “ But it is 
just I should apprise you that there be strange rumors as 
to the marvellous love that King Louis shows my lord 
the earl. He lodgeth in the next house to him, and hath 
even had an opening made in the partition-wall between 
his own chamber and the earl’s. Men do say that the 
king visits him nightly, and there be those who think that 
so much stealthy intercourse between an English ambas- 
sador and the kinsman of Margaret of Anjou bodeth 
small profit to our grace the king.” 

“ I observe,” said Hastings, glancing to the super- 
scription, “ that this letter is addressed to my Lord 
Rivers. Can he avouch the fidelity of his correspondent ? ” 
Surely, yes,” answered Rivers ; “ it is a gentleman of 
my own blood.” 

“Were he not so accredited,” returned Hastings, “I 
should question the truth of a man who can thus consent 
to play the spy upon his lord and superior,” 

“ The public weal justifies all things,” said the Earl of 
Worcester (who, though by marriage nearly connected 
to Warwick, eyed his power with the jealous scorn which 
the man of book-lore often feels for one whose talent lies 
in action) — “so held our masters in all state-craft, the 
Greek and Roman.” 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


313 


“ Certes,” said Sir Anthony Woodville, “it grieveth 
the pride of an English knight, that we should be be- 
holden for courtesies to the born foe of England, which 
I take the Frenchman naturally to be.” 

“Ah,” said Edward, smiling sternly, “I would rather 
be myself, with banner and trump, before the walls of 
Paris, than sending my cousin, the earl, to beg the French 
king’s brother to accept my sister as a bride. And what 
is to become of my good merchant-ships if Burgundy 
take umbrage and close its ports ? ” 

“Beau sire,” said Hastings, “thou knowest how little 
cause I have to love the Earl of Warwick. We all here, 
save your gracious self, bear the memory of some affront 
rendered to us by his pride and heat of mood ! but in 
this council I must cease to be William de Hastings, and 
be all and wholly the king’s servant. I say first, then, 
with reference to these noble peers, that Warwick’s faith 
to the House of York is too well proven to become sus- 
pected because of the courtesies of King Louis — an artful, 
craft, as it clearly seems to me, of the wily Frenchman, 
to weaken your throne, by provoking your distrust of its 
great supporter. Fall we not into such a snare ! More- 
over, we may be sure that Warwick cannot be false, if he 
achieve the object of his embassy — viz., detach Louis 
from the side of Margaret and Lancaster, by close 
alliance with Edward and York. Secondly, sire, with 
regard to that alliance which it seems you would repent 
I hold now, as I have held ever, that it is a master- 
stroke in policy, and the earl in this proves his sharp 
1. --27 


314 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


brain worthy his strong arm ; for as his highness the 
Duke of Gloucester hath now clearly discovered that 
Margaret of Anjou has been of late in London, and that 
treasonable designs were meditated, though now frustra- 
ted, so we may ask why the friends of Lancaster really 
stood aloof? why all conspiracy was, and is, in vain? — 
Because, sire, of this very alliance with France ; because 
the gold and subsidies of Louis are not forthcoming ; 
because the Lancastrians see that if once Lord Warwick 
win France from the Red Rose, nothing short of such a 
miracle as their gaining Warwick instead can give a 
hope to their treason. Your highness fears the anger 
of Burgundy, and the suspension of your trade with the 
Flemings ; but forgive me — this is not reasonable. Bur- 
gundy dares not offend England, matched, as its arras 
are, with France; the Flemings gain more by you than 
you gain by the Flemings, and those interested burghers 
will not suffer any prince’s quarrel to damage their com- 
merce. Charolois may bluster and threat, but the storm 
will pass ; and Burgundy will be contented, if England 
remain neutral in the feud with France. All these 
reasons, sire, urge me to support my private foe, the 
Lord Warwick, and to pray you to give no ear to the 
discrediting his honor and his embassy.” 

The profound sagacity of these remarks, the repute of 
the speaker, and the well-known grudge between him and 
Warwick, for reasons hereafter to be explained, produced 
a strong effect upon the intellect of Edward, always 
vigorous, save when clouded with passion But Rivers, 


THE LAST OF THE BaRONS. 315 

whose malice to the earl was indomitable, coldly recom- 
menced. 

“With submission to the Lord Hastings, sire, whom 
we know that love sometimes blinds, and whose allegiance 
to the earl’s fair sister, the Lady of Bonville, perchance 
somewhat moves him to forget the day when Lord War- 
wick ” 

“ Cease, my lord,” said Hastings, white with sup- 
pressed anger ; “ these references beseem not the councils 
of grave men.” 

“Tut, Hastings,” said Edward, laughing merrily — 
“women mix themselves up in all things; board or 
council, bed or battle — wherever there is mischief astir, 
there, be sure, peeps a woman’s sly face from her wimple. 
Go on. Rivers.” 

“Your pardon, my Lord Hastings,” said Rivers — “I 
knew not my thrust went so home ; there is another letter 
I have not yet laid before the king.” He drew forth a 
scroll from his bosom, and read as follows: — 

“Yesterday the earl feasted the king, and as, in dis- 
charge of mine office, I carved for my lord, I heard King 
Louis say — ‘Pasque Dieu, my Lord Warwick; our 
couriers bring us word that Count Charolois declares he 
shall yet wed the Lady Margaret, and that he laughs at 
your embassage. What if our brother. King Edward, 
fall back from the treaty?’ ‘He durst not!’ said the 
earl.” 

“ Durst not I” exclaimed Edward, starting to .his feet, 


31b 


THL LAST OF THE BARONS. 


and striking the table with his clenched hand, “ Durst 
not I Hastings, hear you that?” 

Hastings bowed his head, in assent. “ Is that all. 
Lord Rivers ? ” 

“All! and niethinks enough.” 

“Enough, by my halidamel” said Edward, laughing 
bitterly ; “ he shall see what a king dares, when a subject 
threatens. Admit the worshipful the deputies from our 
city of London — lord chamberlain, it is thine office — 
they await in the ante-room,” 

Hastings gravely obeyed, and in crimson gowns, with 
purple hoods and gold chains, marshalled into the king’s 
presence a goodly deputation from the various corporate 
companies of London. 

These personages advanced within a few paces of the 
dais, and there halted and knelt, while their spokesman 
read, on his knees, a long petition praying the king to 
take into his gracious consideration the state of the trade 
with the Flemings ; and though not absolutely venturing 
to name or to deprecate the meditated alliance with 
France, beseeching his grace to satisfy them as to certain 
rumors, already very prejudicial to their commerce, of 
the possibility of a breach with the Duke of Burgundy. 
The merchant-king listened with great attention and 
affability to this petition ; and replied, shortly, that he 
thanked the deputation for their zeal for the public weal 
that a king would have enough to do if he contravened 
every gossip’s tale ; but that it was his firm purpose to 
protect, in all ways, the London traders, and to maintain 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 317 

the most amicable understanding with the Duke of Bur- 
gundy. 

The supplicators then withdrew from the royal pres- 
ence. 

"Noted you how gracious the king was to me?” 
whispered Master Heyford to one of his brethren ; " he 
looked at me while he answered.” 

" Coxcomb I ” muttered the confidant, "as if I did not 
catch his eye, when he said, ^Ye are the pillars of the 
public weal.' But because Master Heyford has a hand- 
some wife, he thinks he tosseth all London on his own 
horns ! ” 

As the citizens were quitting the palace. Lord Rivers 
joined them. "You will thank me for suggesting this 
deputation, worthy sirs,” said he, smiling significantly ; 
" you have timed it well I ” — and passing by them with- 
out further comment, he took the way to the queen’s 
chamber. 

Elizabeth was playing with her infant daughter, tossing 
the child in the air, and laughing at its riotous laughter. 
The stern old Duchess of Bedford, leaning over the back 
of the state-chair, looked on with all a grandmother’s 
pride, and half chanted a nursery rhyme. It was a sight 
fair to see I Elizabeth never seemed more lovely : her 
artificial, dissimulating smile changed into hearty, mater- 
nal glee; her smooth cheek flushed with exercise, a stray 
ringlet escaping from the stiff coif! — And, alas, the mo- 
ment the two ladies caught sight of Rivers, all the charm 
was dissolved — the child was hastily put on the floor — 
27 * 


318 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


the queen, half ashamed of being natural, even before 
her father, smoothed back the rebel lock, and the duchess, 
breaking off in the midst of her grandma song, ex- 
claimed — 

“Well, well! — how thrives our policy?” 

“The king,” answered Rivers, “is in the very mood 
we could desire. At the words, ‘He durst not!^ the 
Plantagenet sprung up in his breast ; and now, lest he 
ask to see the rest of the letter, thus I destroy it;” — 
and flinging the scroll in the blazing hearth, he watched 
it consume. 

“Why this, sir?” said the queen. 

“Because, my Elizabeth, the bold words’ glided off 
into a decent gloss — 'He durst not,'* said Warwick, 'be- 
cause what a noble heart dares least is to belie the 
plighted word, and what the kind heart shuns most is to 
wrong the confiding friend.*** 

“It was fortunate,” said the duchess, “that Edward 
took heat at the first words, nor stopped, it seems, for 
the rest I ” 

“I was prepared, Jacquetta ; — had he asked to see 
the rest, I should have dropped the scroll into the brazier, 
as containing what I would not presume to read. Cour- 
age I Edward has seen the merchants ; he has flouted 
Hastings— -who would gainsay us. For the rest, Eliza- 
beth, be it yours to speak of affronts paid by the earl to 
your highness; be it yours, Jacquetta, to rouse Edward^s 
pride by dwelling on Warwick’s overweening power. Be 
it mine to enlist his interest oi^behalf ot his merchandise ; 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


319 


be it Margaret’s, to move his heart by soft tears for the 
bold Charolois ; and ere a month be told, Warwick shall 
find his embassy a thriftless laughing-stock, and no shade 
pass between the house of Woodville and the sun of 
England.” 

“ I am scarce queen while Warwick is minister,” said 
Elizabeth, vindictively. “How he taunted me in the 
garden, when we met last 1 ” 

“ But hark you, daughter and lady liege, hark you I 
Edward is not prepared for the decisive stroke. I have 
arranged with Anthony, whose chivalrous follies fit him 
not for full comprehension of our objects, how upon fair 
excuse the heir of Burgundy’s brother — the Count de la 
Roche — shall visit London ; and the count once here, all 
is ours ! Hush ! take up the little one — Edward comes ! ” 


CHAPTER III. 

Wherein Master Nicholas Alwyn visits the Court, and there learns 
Matter of which the acute Reader will judge for himself. 

It was a morning towards the end of May (some little 
time after Edward’s gracious reception of the London 
deputies), when Nicholas Alwyn,- accompanied by two 
servitors armed to the teeth — for they carried with them 
■goods of much value, and even in the broad daylight, 
and amidst the most frequented parts of the city, men 
still confided little in the seaurity of the law, — arrived 


320 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

at the Tower, and was conducted to the presence of the 
queen. 

Elizabeth and her mother were engaged in animated 
but whispered conversation, when the goldsmith entered ; 
and there was an unusual gaiety in the queen’s counte- 
nance as she turned to Alwyn and bade him show her 
his newest goods. 

While, with a curiosity and an eagerness that seeme'd 
almost child-like, Elizabeth turned over rings, chains, and 
brooches, scarcety listening to Alwyn’s comments on the 
lustre of the gems or the quaintness of the fashion, the 
duchess disappeared for a moment, and returned with the 
Princess Margaret. 

This young princess had much of the majestic beauty 
of her royal brother, but, instead of the frank, careless 
expression, so fascinating in Edward, there was, in her 
full and curved lip, and bright, large eye, something at 
once of haughtiness and passion, which spoke a decision 
and vivacity of character beyond her years. 

“ Choose for thyself, sweetheart and daughter mine,” 
said the duchess, affectionately placing her hand on Mar- 
garet’s luxuriant hair, “ and let the noble visitor we 
await confess that our rose of England outblooms the 
world.” 

The princess colored with complacent vanity at these 
words, and, drawing near the queen, looked silently at a 
collar of pearls, which Elizabeth held. 

“ If I may adventure so to say,” observed Alwyn, 
“pearls will mightily beseem her highness’s youthful 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


321 


bloom ; and lo I here be some adornments for the bodice 
or partelet, to sort with the collar; not,” added the gold- 
smith, bowing low, and looking down, “not, perchance, 
displeasing to her highness, in that they are wrought in 
the guise of the fleur-de-lis ” 

An impatient gesture in the queen, and a sudden cloud 
over the fair brow of Margaret, instantly betokened to 
the shrewd trader that he had committed sotne most un- 
welcome error in this last allusion to the alliance with 
King Louis of France, w'hich, according to rumor, the 
Earl of Warwick had well-nigh brought to a successful 
negotiation ; and to convince him yet more of his mis- 
take, the duchess said, haughtily — “ Good fellow, be con- 
tented to display thy wares, and spare us thy comments. 
As for thy hideous fleur-de-lis, an’ thy master had no 
better device, he would not long remain the king’s 
jeweller 1 ” 

“ I have no heart for the pearls,” said Margaret, 
abruptly; “they are at best pale and sicklied. What 
hast thou of bolder ornament, and more dazzling lustrous- 
ness ? ” 

“These emeralds, it is said, were once among the 
jewels of the great house of Burgundy,” observed 
Nicholas, slowly, and fixing his keen, sagacious look on 
the royal purchasers. 

“ Of Burgundy ! ” exclaimed the queen. 

“ It is true,” said the Duchess of Bedford, looking at 
the ornament with care, and slightly coloring — for, in 
fact, the jewels had been a present from Philii) the Good 


V 


322 


THi: LAST OF THE BARONS. 


to the Duke of Bedford, and the exigencies of the civil 
wars had led, fiorae time since, first, to their mortgage, 
oi rather pawn, and then to their sale. 

The princess passed her arm affectionately round Jac- 
quetta’s neck, and said, “ If yon leave me my choice, I 
will have none but these emeralds.” 

The two elder ladies exchanged looks and smiles. 

“ Hast thou travelled, young man ? ” asked the 
duchess. 

“ Not in foreign parts, gracious lady, but I have lived 
much with those who have been great wanderers.” 

“ Ah ! and what say they of the ancient friends of 
mine house, the princes of Burgundy ? ” 

“ Lady, all men agree that a nobler prince and a juster 
than Duke Philip never reigned over brave men ; and 
those who have seen the wisdom of his rule, grieve sorely 
to think so excellent and mighty a lord should have 
trouble brought to his old age by the turbulence of his 
son, the Count of Charolois.” 

Again Margaret’s fair brow lowered, and the duchess 
hastened to answer — “ The disputes between princes, 
young man, can never be rightly understood by such as 
thou and thy friends. The Count of Charolois is a noble 
gentleman ; and fire in youth will break out. Richard 
the lion-hearted of England, was not less puissant a king 
for the troubles he occasioned to his sire when prince.” 

Alwyn bit his lip, to restrain a reply that might not 
have been well received ; and the queen, putting aside 
the emeralds and a few other trinkets, said, smilingly, to 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


323 


the duchess, “ Shall the king pay for these, or have thy 
learned men yet discovered the great secret 

“Nay, wicked child,” said the duchess, “thou lovest 
to banter me ; and, truth to say, more gold has been 
melted in the crucible than as yet promises ever to come 
out of it; but my new alchemist, Master Warner, seems 
to have gone nearer to the result than any I have yet 
known. Meanwhile, the king’s treasurer must, perforce, 
supply the gear to the king’s sister.” 

The queen wrote an order on the oflScer thus referred 
to, who was no other than her own father, Lord Rivers ; 
and Alwyn, putting up his goods, was about to withdraw, 
when the duchess said, carelessly, “Good youth, the deal- 
ings of our merchants are more with Flanders than with 
France — is it not so ? ” 

“ Surely,” said Alwyn, “the Flemings are good traders 
and honest folk.” 

“ It is well known, I trust, in the city of London, that 
this new alliance with France is the work of their favorite, 
the Lord Warwick,” said the duchess, scornfully; “but 
whatever the earl does is right with ye of the hood and 
cap, even though he were to leave yon river without one 
merchant-mast. ” 

“ Whatever be our thoughts, puissant lady,” said Al- 
wyn, cautiously, “ we give them not vent to the meddling 
with state affairs.’* 

“Ay,” persisted Jacquetta, “thine answer is loyal and 
discreet. But an’ the Lord Warwick had sought alliance 
with the Count of Charolois, would there have been 


324 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


Brighter bonfires than ye will see in Smithfield, when ye 
hear that business with the Flemings is surrendered for 
fine words from King Louis the Cunning ? ” 

“We trust too much to our king’s love for the citizens 
of London to fear that surrender, please your highness,” 
answered Alwyn ; “our king himself is the first of our 
merchants, and he hath given a gracious answer to the 
deputation from our city.” 

“You speak wisely, sir,” said the queen ; “and your 
king will yet defend you from the plots of your enemies. 
You may retire.” 

Alwyn, glad to be released from questionings but little 
to his taste, hastened to depart. At the gate of the 
royal lodge, he gave his caskets to the servitors who 
attended him, and passing slowly along the court-yard, 
thus soliloquized: — 

“ Our neighbors the Scotch say, ‘ It is good fishing in 
muddy waters;’ but he who fishes^ into the secrets of 
courts must bait with his head. What mischief doth 
that crafty queen — the proud duchess — devise ? Urn I 
They are thinking still to match the young princess with 
the hot Count of Charolois. Better for trade, it is true, 
to be hand in hand with the Flemings ; but there are 
two sides to a loaf. If they play such a trick on the 
stout earl, he is not a man to sit down and do nothing. 
More food for the ravens, I fear — more brown bills and 
bright lances in the green fields of poor England! — 
and King Louis is an awful carle, to sow flax in his 
neighbor’s house, when the torches are burning. Urn! 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 326 

Here is fair Marmadnke. He looks brave in his gay 
super-tunic. Well, sir and foster-brother, how fare you 
at court ? ” 

“ My dear Nicholas, a merry welcome and hearty to 
your sharp, thoughtful face. Ah, man I we shall have a 
gay time for you venders of gewgaws. There are to be 
revels and jousts — revels in the Tower, and jousts in 
Smithfield. We gentles are already hard at practice in 
the tilt-yard.” 

“ Sham battles are better than real ones, Master Nevile ! 
But what is in the wind?” 

“A sail, Nicholas ! a sail, bound to England I Know 
that the Count of Charolois has permitted Sir Anthony 
Count de la Roche, his bastard brother, to come over to 
London to cross lances with our own Sir Anthony Lord 
Scales. It is an old challenge, and right royally will the 
encounter be held.” 

“Um I” muttered Alwyn — “this bastard, then, is the 
carrier pigeon. And,” said he, aloud — “is it only to 
exchange hard blows that Sir Anthony of Burgundy 
comes over to confer with Sir Anthony of England? 
Is there no court rumor of other matters between them ? ” 

“Nay. What else ? Plague on you craftsmen! Ye 
cannot even comprehend the pleasure and pastime two 
knights take in the storm of the lists!” 

“ I humbly avow it. Master Nevile. But it seemeth, 
bideed, strange to me that the Count of Charolois should 
take this very moment to send envoys of courtesy, when 
sharp a slight has been put on his pride, and so 
L — 28 


so 


326 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

dangerous a blow struck at his interests, as the alliance 
between the French prince and the Lady Margaret. Bold 
Charles has some cunning, I trow, which your kinsman 
of Warwick is not here to detect.” 

“ Tush, man ! Trade, I see, teaches ye all so to cheat 
and overreach, that ye suppose a knight’s burgonot is as 
full of tricks and traps as a citizen’s flat-cap. Would, 
though, that my kinsman of Warwick were here,” added 
Marmaduke, in a low whisper, “for the women and the 
courtiers are doing their best to belie him.” 

“ Keep thyself clear of them all, Marmaduke,” said 
Alwyn ; “for, by the Lord, I see that the evil days are 
coming once more, fast and dark, and men like thee will 
again have to choose between friend and friend, kinsman 
and king. For my part, I say nothing ; for I love not 
fighting, unless compelled to it. But if ever I do fight, 
it will not be by thy side, under Warwick’s broad flag. 

“Eh, man?” interrupted the Nevile. 

“ Kay, nay,” continued Nicholas, shaking his head, 
“ I admire the great earl, and were I lord or gentle, the 
great earl should be my chief. But each to his order ; 
and the trader’s tree grows not out of a baron’s walking- 
staff*. King Edward may be a stern ruler, but he is a 
friend to the goldsmiths, and has just confirmed our 
charter. Let every man praise the bridge he goes over, 
as the saw saith. Truce to this talk. Master Nevile. 
I hear that your young hostess — ehem — Mistress Sibyll, 
is greatly marvelled at among the court gallants — is 
it so ? ” 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS 327 

Marinaduke’s frank face grew gloomy. “Alas ! dear 
foster-brother,” he said, dropping the somewhat affected 
tone in which he had before spoken — “I must confess, 
to shame, that I cannot yet get the damsel out of my 
thoughts, which is what I consider it a point of manhood 
and spirit to achieve.” 

“ How so ? ” 

“ Because, when a maiden chooseth steadily to say nay 
to your wooing — to follow her heels, and whine and beg, 
is a dog’s duty, not a man’s.” 

“ What ! ” exclaimed Alwyn, in a voice of great eager- 
ness — “ mean you to say that you have wooed Sibyll 
Warner as your wife?” 

“Yerily, yes!” 

“And failed ? ” 

“And failed.” 

“ Poor Marmaduke I ” 

“There is no ‘poor’ in the matter, Nick Alwyn,” re- 
turned Marmaduke, sturdily; “if a girl likes me, well; 
— if not, there are too many others in the wide world, for 
a young fellow to break his heart about one. Yet,” he 
added, after a short pause, and with a sigh, — “ yet, if 
thou hast not seen her since she came to the court, thou 
wilt find her wondrously changed.” 

“ More’s the pity ! ” said Alwyn, reciprocating his 
friend’s sigh. 

“ I mean that she seems all the coraelier for the court 
air. And beshrew me, I think the Lord Hastings, with 


328 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

his dulcet flatteries, hath made it a sort of frenzy for all 
the gallants to flock round her.’^ 

" I should like to see Master Warner again, said Al- 
wyn ; — “ where lodges he ? ” 

“ Yonder — by the little postern, on the third flight of 
the turret that flanks the corridor,* next to Friarr Bungey, 
the magician ; but it is broad daylight, and therefore not 
so dangerous — not but thou mayest as well patter an Ave 
in going up-stairs.” 

“ Farewell, Master Nevile,” said Alwyn, smiling; “I 
will seek the mechanician, and if T find there Mistress 
Sybill, what shall I say from thee ? ” 

“ That young bachelors in the reign of Edward lY. 
will never want fair feres,” answered Nevile, debonnairly 
smoothing his lawn partelet. 


CHAPTER lY. 

Exhibiting the Benefits which Royal Patronage confers on Genius. 
Also the early loves of the Lord Hastings; with other matters 
edifying and delectable. 

The furnace was still at work, the flame glowed, the 
bellows heaved, but these were no longer ministering to 
the service of a mighty and practical invention. The 
mathematician — the philosopher— had descended to the 

* This description refers to that part of the Tower called the 
King’s ©r Queen’s Lodge, and long since destroyed. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


32S 


alchemist. The nature of the time had conquered the 
nature of a genius meant to subdue time. Those studies 
that had gone so far to forestall the master-triumph of 
far later ages, were exchanged for occupations that played 
with the toys of infant wisdom. 0 ! true Tartarus of 
Genius — when its energies are misapplied, when the 
labor but rolls the stone up the mountain, or pours water 
upon water through the sieve 1 

There is a sanguineness in men of great intellect, which 
often leads them into follies avoided by the dull. When 
Adam Warner saw the ruin of his contrivance ; when he 
felt that time, and toil, and money were necessary to its 
restoration ; and when the gold he lacked was placed 
before him as a reward for alchemical labors — he at first 
turned to alchemy, as he would have turned to the plough 
— as he had turned to conspiracy — simply as a means to 
his darling end. But by rapid degrees the fascination 
which all the elder sages experienced in the grand secret, 
exercised its witchery over his mind. If Roger Bacon, 
though catching the notion of the steam-engine, devoted 
himself to the philosopher’s stone — if even in so much 
more enlightened an age, Newton had wasted some pre- 
cious hours in the transmutation of metals, it was natural 
that the solitary sage of the reign of Edward lY. should 
grow, for a while at least, wedded to a pursuit which 
promised results so august. And the worst of alchemy 
is that it always allures on its victims : one gets so near, 
and so near the object — it seems that so small an addi- 
tion will complete the sum ! So there he was — this 
28 * 


330 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

great practical genius, hard at work on turning copper 
into gold ! 

“Well, Master Warner,” said the young goldsmith, 
entering the student’s chamber — “ methinks you scarcely 
remember your friend and visitor, Nicholas Alwyn ? ” 

“ Remember, oh, certes ! doubtless one of the gentle- 
men present when they proposed to put me to the brake* 
— please to stand a little on this side — what is your 
will ? ” 

“ I am not a gentleman, and I should have been loth 
to stand idly by when the torture was talked of, for a 
free-born Englishman, let alone a scholar. And where 
is your fair daughter, Master Warner ? I suppose you 
see but little of her now she is the great dame’s waiting- 
damsel ? ” 

“And why so. Master Alwyn ? ” asked a charming 
voice ; and Alwyn, for the first time, perceived the young 
form of Sibyll, by the embrasure of a window, from which 
might be saen in the court below, a gay group of lords 
and courtiers, with the plain, dark dress of Hastings, 
contrasting their gaudy surcoats, glittering with cloth 
of gold. Alwyn’s tongue clove to his mouth ; all he had 
to say was forgotten in a certain bashful and indescriba- 
ble emotion. 

The alchemist had returned to his furnace, and the 
young man and the girl were as much alone as if Adam 
Warner had been in heaven. 


* Brake, the old word for rack. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


331 


“And wli}^ should the daughter forsake the sire more 
in a court where love is rare, than in the humbler nome, 
where they may need each other less?’* 

“ I thank thee for the rebuke, mistress,” said Alwyn, 
delighted with her speech ; “ for I should have been 
sorry to see thy heart spoiled by the vanities that kill 
most natures.” Scarcely had he uttered these words, 
when they seemed to him over-bold and presuming ; for 
his eye now took in the great change of which Marma- 
duke had spoken. SibylPs dress beseemed the new rank 
which she held : the corset, fringed with gold, and made 
of the finest thread, showed the exquisite contour of the 
throat and neck, whose ivory it concealed. The kirtle of 
rich blue became the fair complexion and dark chestnut 
hair ; and over all she wore that most graceful robe called 
the sasquenice, of which the old French poet sang : — 

“ Car nulle robe n’est si belle, 

A dame ne a demoiselle.” 

This garment, worn over the rest of the dress, had per- 
haps a classical origin, and with slight variations, may 
be seen on the Etruscan vases; it was long and loose — 
of the whitest and finest linen — with hanging sleeves, 
and open at the sides. But it was not the mere dress 
that had embellished the young maiden’s form and aspect 

it was rather an indefinable alteration in the expression 

and the bearing. She looked as if born to the air of 
courts ; still modest, indeed, and sirnple—but with a con- 
sciousness of dignity, and almost of power; and in fact 
the woman had been taught the power that womanhood 


332 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


possesses. She had been admired, followed, flattered ; 
she had learned the authority of beauty. Her accom- 
plishments, uncommon in that age among her sex, had 
aided her charm of person ; her natural pride, which 
though hitherto latent, was high and ardent, fed her heart 
with sweet hopes — a bright career seemed to extend be- 
fore her ; and at peace as to her father’s safety — relieved 
from the drudging cares of poverty — her fancy was free 
to follow the phantasms of sanguine youth through the 
airy land of dreams. And therefore it was that the maid 
was changed ! 

At the sight of the delicate beauty — the self-possessed 
expression — the courtiy dress — the noble air of Sibyll — 
Nicholas Alwyn recoiled, and turned pale — he no longer 
marvelled at her rejection of Marmaduke, and he started 
at the remembrance of the bold thoughts which he had 
dared himself to indulge. 

The girl smiled at the young man’s confusion. 

“ It is not prosperity that spoils the heart,” she said, 
touchingly, “ unless it be mean, indeed. Thou remember- 
est, Master Alwyn, that when God tried his saint, it was 
by adversity and affliction.” 

‘‘ May thy trial in these last be over,” answered 
Alwyn ; “ but the humble must console their state by 
thinking that the great have their trials too ; and, as our 
homely adage hath it, ' That is not always good in the 
maw which is sweet in the mouth.’ Thou seest much of 
my gentle foster-brother. Mistress Sibyll?” 

But in the court dances. Master Alwyn ; for most of 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 333 

the hours in which my lady duchess needs me not are 
spent here. Oh, my father hopes great things ! and now 
at last fame dawns upon him.” 

“ I rejoice to hear it, mistress ; and so, having paid ye 
both my homage, I take my leave, praying that I may 
visit you from time to time, if it be only to consult this 
'worshipful master, touching certain improvements in the 
horologue, in which his mathematics can doubtless instruct 
me — Farewell. I have some jewels to show to the Lady 
of Bonville.” 

“ The Lady of Bonville ! ” repeated Sybill, changing 
color; '‘she is a dame of notable loveliness.” 

“So men say — and mated to a foolish lord; but 
scandal, which spares few, breathes not on her — rare 
praise for a court dame. Few houses can have the boast 
of Lord Warwick’s — that all the men are without fear, 
and all the women without stain.’” 

“ It is said,” observed Sibyll, looking down, “that my 
Lord Hastings once much aifectioned the Lady Bonville. 
Hast thou heard such gossip?” 

“ Surely, yes ; in the city we hear all the tales of the 
court ; for many a courtier, following King Edward’s 
exemplar, dines with the citizen to-day, that he may bor- 
row gold from the citizen to-morrow. Surely, yes ; and 
hence, they say, the small love the wise Hastings bears 
to the stout earl.” 

“ How runs the tale ? Be seated. Master Alwyn.” 

“Marry, thus: when William Hastings was but a 
squire, and much favored by Ricliard, Duke of York, lie 


334 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


lifted his eyes to the Lady Katherine Nevile, sister to 
the Earl of Warwick; and in beauty and in dower, as in 
birth, a mate for a king’s son.” 

“And, doubtless, the Lady Katherine returned his 
love ? ” 

“ So it is said, maiden ; and the Earl of Salisbury her 
father, and Lord Warwick her brother, discovered the 
secret, and swore that no new man (the stout earl’s 
favorite word of contempt), though he were made a duke, 
should give to an upstart posterity the qnarterings of 
Montagu and Nevile. Marry, Mistress Sibyll, there is a 
north country and pithy proverb, ‘ Happy is the man 
whose father went to the devil.’ Had some old Hastings 
been a robber and extortioner, and left to brave William 
the heirship of his wickedness in lordships and lands. 
Lord M^arwick had not called him ‘ a new man.’ Master 
Hastings was dragged, like a serf’s son, before the earl 
on his dais ; and be sure he was rated soundly, for his 
bold blood was up, and he defied the earl, as a gentleman 
born, to single battle. Then the earl’s followers would 
have fallen on him ; and in those days, under King 
Henry, he who bearded a baron in his hall must have a 
troop at his back, or was like to have a rope round his 
neck ; but the earl (for the lion is not as fierce as they 
paint him) came down from his dais, and said, ‘ Man, I 
like thy spirit, and I myself will dub thee knight, that I 
may pick up thy glove and give thee battle.’” 

“And they fought? Brave Hastings!” 

“No. For. wlietlicr the Duke of York forbade it, or 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 335 

whether the Lady Katherine would not hear of such 
strife between fere and frere, I know not ; but Duke 
Richard sent Hastings to Ireland, and, a month after, 
the Lady Katherine married Lord Bonville’s son and 
heir — so, at least, tell the gossips and sing the ballad- 
mongers: Men add, that Lord Hastings still loves the 
dame, though, certes, he knows how to console himself” 

“ Loves her ! Nay, nay, — I trow not,” answered Sybill, 
in a low voice, and with a curl of her dewy lip. 

At this moment the door opened gently, and Lord 
Hastings himself entered. He came in with the familiarity 
of one accustomed to the place. 

“And how fares the grand secret. Master Warner? — 
Sweet mistress I thou seemest lovelier to me in this dark 
chamber than outshining all in the galliard. Ha ! Master 
Alwyn, I owe thee many thanks for making me know 
first the rare arts of this fair emblazoner. Move me yon 
stool, good Alwyn.” 

As the goldsmith obeyed, he glanced from Hastings to 
the blushing face and heaving bosom of Sybill, and a 
deep and exquisite pang shot through his heart. It was 
not jealousy alone ; it was anxiety, compassion, terror. 
The powerful Hastings — the ambitious lord — the accom- 
plished libertine — what a fate for poor Sibyll, if for such 
a man the cheek blushed, and the bosom heaved I 

“ Well, Master Warner,” resumed Hastings, “thou art 
still silent as to thy progress.” 

The philosopher uttered an impatient groan. 

“Ah, I comprehend. The gold-maker must not speak 


336 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


of his craft before the goldsmith. Good Alwyn, thou 
mayest retire. All arts have their mysteries.” 

Alwyn, with a sombre brow, moved to the door. 

In sooth,” he said, “I have over-tarried, good my 
lord. The Lady Bonville will chide me ; for she is of 
no patient temper.” 

“ Bridle thy tongue, artisan, and begone ! ” said Hast- 
ings, with unusual haughtiness and petulance. 

“ I stung him there,” muttered Alwyn, as he withdrew 
— “oh ! fool that I was, to — nay, I thought it never, I 

did but dream it. What wonder we traders hate these 

* 

silken lords ? They reap — we sow — they trifle, we toil — 
they steal with soft words into the hearts which — Oh ! 
Marmaduke, thou art right — right ! — Stout men sit not 
down to weep beneath the willow. But she — the poor 
maiden ! — she looked so haught and so happy. This 
is early May ; will she wear that look when the autumn 
leaves are strewn ? ” 


CHAPTER V. 

The Woodville Intrigue prospers — Montagu confers with Hast- 
ings — Visits the Archbishop of York, and is met on the road 
by a Strange Personage. 

And now the one topic at the court of King Edward lY. 
was the expected arrival of Anthony of Burgundy, Count 
de la Roclie, bastard brotlier of Charolois, afterwards, as 
duke of Burgundy, so famous as diaries tlie Bold. Few. 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 337 

indeed, out of the immediate circle of the Duchess oi 
Bedford’s confidants, regarded the visit of this illustrious 
foreigner as connected with any object beyond the avowed 
one of chivalrous encounter with Anthony Wood ville, the 
fulfilment of a challenge given by the latter two years 
before, at the time of the queen’s coronation. The origin 
of this challenge, Anthony Woodville Lord Scales has 
himself explained in a letter to the bastard, still extant, 
and of which an extract may be seen in the popular and 
delightful biographies of Miss Strickland.* 

It seems that, on the Wednesday before Easter Day, 
1465, as Sir Anthony was speaking to his royal sister, 
“ on his knees,” all the ladies of the court gathered round 
him, and bound to his left knee a band of gold, adorned 
with stones fashioned into the letters S. S. (souvenance 
or remembrance), and to this band was suspended an 
enamelled “Forget-me-not.” “And one of the ladies 
said that ‘ he ought to take a step fitting for the times.’ ” 
This step was denoted by a letter on vellum, bound with 
a gold thread, placed in his cap ; and having obtained 
the king’s permission to bring the adventure of the 
flower of souvenance to a conclusion, the gallant Anthony 
forwarded the articles and the enamelled flower to the 
bastard of Burgundy, beseeching him to touch the latter 
with his knightly hand, in token of his accepting the 
challenge. The Count de la Roche did so, but was not 
sent by his brother amongst the knights whom Charolois 

* “ Queens of England,” vol. iii. p. 380. 


T.— 29 


w 


338 THE LAST OF THE H ARONS. 

despatched to England, and the combat had been sus- 
pended to the present time. 

But now the intriguing Bivers and his duchess gladly 
availed themselves of so fair a pretext for introducing to 
Edward the able brother of Warwick’s enemy, and the 
French prince’s rival, Charles of Burgundy ; and Anthony 
Woodville, too gentle and knightly a person to have 
abetted their cunning projects in any mode less chival- 
rous, willingly consented to revive a challenge in honor 
of the ladies of England. 

The only one amongst the courtiers who seemed dis- 
satisfied with the meditated visit of the doughty Burgun- 
dian champion was the Lord Montagu. This penetrating 
and experienced personage was not to be duped by an 
affectation of that chivalry which, however natural at the 
court of Edward III., was no longer in unison with the 
more intriguing and ambitious times over which presided 
the luxurious husband of Elizabeth Woodville. He had 
noticed of late, with suspicion, that Edward had held 
several councils with the anti-Nevile faction, from which 
he himself was excluded. The king, who heretofore had 
delighted in his companionship, had shown him marks of 
coldness and estrangement, and there was an exulting 
malice in the looks of the Duchess of Bedford, which 
argued some approaching triumph over the great family 
which the Woodvilles so openly labored to supplant. 
One day, as Marmaduke was loitering in the court-yard 
of the Tower, laughing and jesting with his friends. Lord 
Montagu, issuing from the king’s closet, passed him with 


THK LAST OF THE BARONS. 839 

a liurried step and a thoughtful brow. This haugnty 
brother of the Earl of Warwick had so far attended to 
the recommendation of the latter, that he had with some 
courtesy excused himself to Marmaduke for his language 
in the archery-ground, and had subsequently, when see- 
ing him in attendance on the king, honored him with a 
stately nod, or a brief “Good morrow, young kinsman.” 
But as his eye now rested on Marmaduke, while the 
group vailed their bonnets to the powerful courtier, he 
called him forth, with a familiar smile he had never be- 
fore assumed, and drawing him apart, and leaning on his 
shoulder, much to the envy of the standers by, he said, 
caressingly — 

“ Dear kinsman Guy ""' ”** 

“Marmaduke, please you, my lord.” 

“ Dear kinsman Marmaduke, my brother esteems you 
for your father’s sake. And, sooth to say, the Neviles 
are not so numerous at court as they were. Business and 
state matters have made me see too seldom those whom I 
would most affect. Wilt thou ride with me to the More 
Park ? I would present thee to my brother the arch- 
bishop.” 

“ Tf the king would graciously hold me excused.” 
“The king sir! when I — I forgot,” said Montagu, 
checking himself — “oh, as to that, the king stirs not out 
to-day I He hath with him a score of tailors and ar- 
mourers, in high council on the coming festivities. T will 
warrant thy release ; and here comes Hastings, who shall 
confirm it.” 


840 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


“ Fair my lord I ” — as at that moment Hastings emerged 
from the little postern that gave egress from the apart- 
ments occupied by the alchemist of the Duchess of Bed- 
ford — “ wilt thou be pleased, in thy capacity of chamber- 
lain, to sanction my cousin in a day’s absence ? I would 
confer with him on family matters.” 

“ Cartes, a small favor to so deserving a youth. T will 
see to his deputy.” 

“A word with you, Hastings,” said Montagu, thought- 
fully, and he drew aside his fellow-courtier : “ what thinkest 
thou of this Burgundy bastard’s visit ? ” 

“ That it has given a peacock’s strut to the popinjay 
Anthony Woodville.” 

“ Would that were all,” returned Montagu. “ But the 
very moment that Warwick is negotiating with Louis of 
France, this interchange of courtesies with Louis’s deadly 
foe, the Count of Charolois, is out of season.” 

“Nay, take it not so gravely — a mere pastime.” 

“Hastings, thou knowest better. But thou art no 
friend of my great brother.” 

“ Small cause have I to be so,” answered Hastings, 
with a quivering lip. “ To him and your father, I owe 
as deep a curse as ever fell on the heart of man. I have 
lived to be above even Lord Warwick’s insult. Yet 
young, I stand amongst the warriors and peers of Eng- 
land, with a crest as haught, and a scutcheon as stainless 
as the best. I have drunk deep of the world’s pleasures. 
I command, as I list, the world’s gaudy pomps, and I tell 
thee, that all my success in life countervails not the agony 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


341 


of the hour, when all the bloom and loveliness of the 
earth faded intQ winter, and the only woman I ever loved 
was sacrificed to her brother’s pride.” 

The large drops stood on the pale brow of the fortu- 
nate noble as he thus spoke, and his hollow voice affected 
even the worldly Montagu. 

“ Tush, Hastings !” said Montagu, kindly; “these are 
but a young man’s idle memories. Are we not all fated, 
in our early years, to love in vain ? — even I married not 
the maiden I thought the fairest, and held the dearest. 
For the rest, bethink thee — thou wert then but a simple 
squire. ” 

“ But of as ancient and pure a blood as ever rolled its 
fiery essence through a Norman’s veins.” 

‘‘“It maybe so; but old houses, when impoverished, 
are cheaply held. And thou must confess thou wert then 
no mate for Katherine. Now, indeed, it were difi’erent ; 
now a Nevile might be proud to call Hastings brother.” 
■ “I know it,” said Hastings, proudly — “I know it, 
lord, and why? Because I have gold, and land,' and the 
king’s love, and can say, as the Centurion to my fellow- 
man, ‘ Do this, and he doeth it ; ’ and yet I tell thee. Lord 
Montagu, that I am less worthy now the love of beauty, 
the right hand of fellowship from a noble spirit, than I 
was then — when — the simple squire — my heart full of 
truth and loyalty, with lips that had never lied, with a 
soul never polluted by unworthy pleasures or mean in- 
trigues, I felt that Katherine Nevile should never blush 
to own her fere and plighted lord in William de Hastings. 
29 * 


342 THt LAST OF THE BARONS. 

Let this pass • let it pass. You call me no friend to 
Warwick. True ! but I am a friend to the king he has 
served, and the land of my birth to which he has given 
peace ; and, therefore, not till Warwick desert Edward, 
not till he wake the land again to broil and strife, will I 
mingle in the plots of those who seek his downfall. If, 
in my office and stated rank, I am compelled to counte- 
nance the pageant of this mock tournament, and seem to 
honor the coming of the Count de la Roche, I will at 
least stand aloof and free from all attempt to apply a 
gaudy pageant to a dangerous policy ; and on this pledge, 
Montagu, I give you my knightly hand.^’ 

“ It suffices,” answered Montagu, pressing the hand 
extended to him. “ But the other day I heard the king’s 
dissour tell him a tale of some tyrant, who silently showed 
a curious questioner how to govern a land, by cutting 
down, with his staff, the heads of the tallest poppies; 
and the Duchess of Bedford turned to me, and asked — 
‘ What says a Nevile to the application ? ’ ‘ Faith, lady,’ 
said I, ‘the Nevile poppies have oak stems.’ Believe me, 
Hastings, these Woodvilles may grieve, and wrong, and 
affront Lord Warwick, but woe to all the pigmy goaders 
when the lion turns at bay.” 

With this solemn menace, Montagu quitted Hastings, 
and . passed on, leaning upon Marmaduke, and with a 
gloomy brow. 

At the gate of the palace waited the Lord Montagu’s 
palfrey and his retinue of twenty squires and thirty 
grooms. “Mount, Master Marmuduke, and take thy 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 348 

choice among tliese steeds, for we shall ride alone. There 
is no Nevile amongst these gentlemen.” Marmaduke 
obeyed. The earl dismissed his retinue, and in little more 
than ten minutes, — so different, then, was the extent of 
the metropolis, — the noble and the squire were amidst 
the open fields. 

They had gone several miles, at a brisk trot, before the 
earl opened his lips, and then, slackening his pace, he 
said abruptly, “How dost thou like the king? Speak 
out, youth ; there are no eaves-droppers here.” 

“He is a most gracious master, and a most winning 
gentleman.” 

“ He is both,” said Montagu, with a touch of emotion, 
that surprised Marmaduke, “ and no man can come near 
without lo.Ying him. And yet, Marmaduke (is that thy 
name?) — yet, whether it be weakness or falseness, no 
man can be sure of his king’s favor from day to day ! We 
Neviles must hold fast to each other. Not a stick should 
be lost, if the fagot is to remain unbroken. What say 
you?” and the earl’s keen eye turned sharply on the 
young man. 

“ I say, my lord, that the Earl of Warwick was to me 
patron, lord, and father, w'hen I entered yon city a 
friendless orphan ; and that, though I covet honors, and 
love pleasure, and would be loth to lift finger or speak 
word against King Edward, yet were that princely lord 

the head of mine house — an outcast and a beggar, by 

his side I would wander, for his bread I would beg ! ” 

“Young man,” exclaimed Montagu, “from this hour 


344 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


I admit thee to my heart ! Give me thy hand. Beggar 
and outcast? — No I — If the storm come, the meaner 
bird's take to shelter, the eagle remains solitary in 
heaven I ” So saying, he relapsed into silence, and put 
spurs to his steed. 

Towards the decline of day, they drew near to the 
favorite palace of the Archbishop of York. There, the 
features of the country presented a more cultivated aspect 
than it had hitherto worn. For at that period the lands 
of the churchmen were infinitely in advance of those of 
the laity in the elementary arts of husbandry, partly be- 
cause the ecclesiastic proprietors had greater capital at 
their command, partly because their superior learning had 
taught them to avail themselves, in some measure, of the 
instructions of the Latin writers. Still the prevailing 
characteristic of the scenery was pasture land — immense 
tracts of common supported flocks of sheep ; the fragrance 
of new-mown hay breathed sweet from many a sunny 
field. In the rear, stretched woods of Druid growth, 
and in the narrow lanes, that led to unfrequent farms and 
homesteads, built almost entirely either of wood or (more 
primitive still) of mud and clay, profuse weeds, brambles, 
and wild flowers, almost concealed the narrow pathway, 
never intended for cart or waggon, and arrested the slow 
path of the ragged horse bearing the scanty produce of 
acres to yard or mill. But, though to the eye of an 
economist or philanthropist, broad England now, with its 
variegated agriculture, its wide roads, its white-walled 
villas, and numerous towns, may present a more smiling 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


345 


countenance, — to the early lover of Nature, fresh from 
the child-like age of poetry and romance, the rich and 
lovely verdure which gave to our mother-country the 
name of Green England ; ” its wild woods and covert 
alleys, proffering adventure to fancy; its tranquil heaths, 
studded with peaceful flocks, and vocal, from time to 
time, with the rude scrannel of the shepherd — had a charm 
which we can understand alone by the luxurious reading 
of our elder writers. For the country itself ministered to 
that mingled fancy and contemplation which the stirring 
and ambitious life of towns and civilization has in much 
banished from our later literature. 

Even the thoughtful Montagu relaxed his brow as he 
gttzed around, and he said to Marmaduke, in a gentle 
and subdued voice — 

“ Methinks, young cousin, that in such scenes, those 
silly rhymes, taught us in our childhood, of the green 
woods and the summer cuckoos, of bold Robin and Maid 
Marian, ring back in our ears. Alas, that this fair land 
should be so often dyed in the blood of her own children I 
Here, how the thought shrinks from broils and war — 
civil war — war between brother and brother, son and 
father I In the city and the court, we forget others 
over-much, from the too keen memory of ourselves.” 

Scarcely had Montagu said these words, before there 
suddenly emerged from a bosky lane to the right a man 
mounted upon a powerful roan horse. His dress was 
that of a substantial franklin ; a green surtout of broad- 
(•!< til, over a tight vest of the same color, left, to the ad- 


846 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


miration of a soldierly eye, an expanse of chest that 
might have vied with the mighty strength of Warwick 
himself. A cap, somewhat like a turban, fell in two ends 
over the left cheek, till they touched the shoulder, and 
the upper part of the visage was concealed by a half- 
vizard, not unfrequently worn out of doors with such 
head-gear, as a shade from the sun. Behind this person 
rode, on a horse equally powerful, a man of shorter 
stature, but scarcely less muscular a frame, clad in a 
leathern jerkin, curiously fastened with thongs, and wear- 
ing a steel bonnet, projecting far over the face. 

The foremost of these strangers, coming thus unawares 
upon the courtiers, reined in his steed, and said, in a 
clear, full voice — “ Good evening to you, my masters. 
It is not often that these roads witness riders in silk and 
pile.” 

“Friend,” quoth the Montagu, “may the peace we 
enjoy under the White Rose increase the number of all 
travellers through our land, whether in pile or russet ! ” 

“ Peace, sir I ” returned the horseman, roughly — “ peace 
is no blessing to poor men, unless it brings something 
more than life — the means to live in security and ease. 
Peace hath done nothing for the poor of England. Whv, 
look you towards yon grey tower, — the owner is, for- 
sooth, gentleman and knight ; but yesterday, he and his 
men broke open a yeoman’s house, carried off his wife 
and daughters to his tower, and refuseth to surrender 
them till ransomed by half the year’s produce on the 
yeoman’s farm.” 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 347 

“A caitiff and illegal act,” said Montagu 
“ Illegal I But the law will notice it not — why should 
it? Unjust, if it punish the knight, and dare not touch 
the king’s brother ! ” 

“How, sir?” 

“ I say the king’s brother. Scarcely a month since, 
twenty-four persons under George Duke of Clarence, 
entered by force a lady’s house, and seized her jewels and 
her money, upon some charge, God wot, of contriving 
mischief to the boy-duke.* Are not the Commons ground 
by imposts for the queen’s kindred ? Are not the king’s 
officers and purveyors licensed spoilers and rapiners ? 
Are not the old chivalry banished for new upstarts ? 
And in all this, is peace better than war ? ” 

“ Knowest thou not that these words are death, man ?” 
“ Ay, in the city ! but in the fields and waste, thought 
is free. Frown not, my lord. Ah ! I know you ; and 
the time may come when the baron will act what the 
franklin speaks. What ! think you I see not the signs 
of the storm? Are Warwick and Montagu more safe 
with Edward than they were with Henry ? Look to thy- 
self I Charolois will outwit King Louis, and ere the year 
be out, the young Margaret of England will be the lady 
of your brave brother’s sternest foe ! ” 

“And who art thou, knave ?” cried Montagu, aghast, 

* See for this and other instances of the prevalent contempt of 
law in the reign of Edwnrd IV., and, indeed, during the fifteenth 
century, the extracts from the Parliamentary Rolls, quoted by 
Sharon Turner, “History of England,” vol. iii, p. 399. 


348 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

and laying his gloved hand on the bold prophet^s 
bridle. 

“ One who has sworn the fall of the house of York, 
and may live to fight, side by side, in that cause with 
Warwick ; for Warwick, whatever be his faults, has an 
English heart, and loves the Commons.” 

Montagu, uttering an exclamation of astonishment, 
relaxed hold of the franklin’s bridle; and the latter waved 
his hand, and spurring his steed across the wild chain of 
commons, disappeared with his follower. 

“A sturdy traitor!” muttered the earl, following him 
with his eye. “ One of the exiled Lancastrian lords, per- 
chance. Strange how they pierce into our secrets 1 
Heardst thou that fellow, Marmaduke ? ” 

“Only in a few sentences, and those brought my hand 
to my dagger. But as thou madest no sign, I thought 
his grace the king could not be much injured by empty 
words. ” 

“ True I and misfortune has ever a shrewish tongue.” 

“An’ it please you, my lord,” quoth Marmaduke, “I 
have seen the man before, and it seemeth to me that he 
holds much power over the rascal rabble.” And here 
Marmaduke narrated the attack upon Warner’s house, 
and how it was frustrated by the intercession of Eobin 
of Redesdale. 

“ Art thou sure it is the same man, for his face was 
masked ? ” 

“ My lord, in the north, as thou knowest, we recognize 
men by their forms, not faces, as, in truth, we ought, 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 34^ 

seeing that it is the sinews and bulk, not tha lips and 
nose, that make a man a useful friend or dangerous 
foe.” 

Montagu smiled at this soldierly simplicity. 

‘‘And heard you the name the raptrils shouted?” 

“ ‘ Robin,’ my lord. They cried out ‘ Robin,’ as if it 
had been a ‘Montagu’ or a ‘Warwick.’” 

“ Robin ! ah, then, I guess the man — a most perilous 
and stanch Lancastriau. He has more weight with the 
poor than had Cade the rebel, and they say Margaret 
trusts him as much as she doth an Exeter or Somerset. 
I marvel that he should show himself so near the gates 
of London. It must be looked to. But come, cousin. 
Our steeds are breathed — let us on !” 

On arriving at the More, its stately architecture, em- 
bellished by the prelate with a fa9ade of double arches, 
painted and blazoned somewhat in the fashion of certain 
old Italian houses, much dazzled Marmaduke. And the 
splendor of the archbishop’s retinue — less martial, indeed, 
than Warwick’s — was yet more imposing to the common 
eye. Every oflBce that pomp could devise for a king’s 
court was to be found in the household of this magnificent 
y)relate : — master of the horse and the hounds, chamber- 
lain, treasurer, pursuivant, herald, seneschal, captain of 
the body-guard, &c. — and all emulously sought for and 
proudly held by gentlemen of the first blood and birth. 
Ilis mansion was at once a court for middle life, a school 
for youth, an asylum for age ; and thither, as to a Medici, 
fled the letters and the arts. 

I.— 30 2 d 


350 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


Through corridor and hall, lined with pages and 
squires, passed Montagu and Marmaduke, till they gained 
a quaint garden, the wonder and envy of the time, 
planned by an Italian of Mantua, and perhaps the state- 
liest one of the kind existent in England. Straight 
walks, terraces and fountains, clipped trees, green alleys 
and smooth bowling-greens abounded, but flowers were 
few and common ; and if here and there a statue might 
be found, it possessed none of the art so admirable in our 
earliest ecclesiastical architecture, but its clumsy propor- 
tions were made more uncouth by a proportion of bar- 
baric painting and gilding. The fountains, however, 
were especially curious, diversified, and elaborate : some 
shot up as pyramids, others coiled in undulating streams, 
each jet chasing the other as serpents ; some, again, 
branched oft* in the form of trees, while mimic birds 
perched upon leaden boughs, poured water from their 
bills. Marmaduke, much astounded and bewildered, mut- 
tered a pater-noster in great haste ; and even the clerical 
rank of the prelate did not preserve him from the suspi- 
cion of magical practices in the youth^s mind. 

Remote from all his train, in a little arbor overgrown 
with the honeysuckle and white rose, a small table before 
him bearing fruits, confectionery, and spiced wines (for 
the prelate was a celebrated epicure, though still in the 
glow of youth), they found George Nevile, reading lazily 
a Latin MS. 

“ Well, my dear lord and brother,” said Montagu, lay- 
ing his arm on the prelate’s shoulder — “ first let me pre- 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS 


851 


sent to thy favor a gallant youth, Marmaduke Nevile, 
worthy his name, and thy love.” 

“ He is welcome, Montagu, to our poor house,” said 
the archbishop rising, and complacently glancing at his 
palace, splendidly gleaming through the trellis-work. 
“ 'Puer imcjenui vultus. ’ Thou art acquainted, doubt- 
less, young sir, with the Humaner Letters ? ” 

“ Well-a-day, my lord, my nurturing was somewhat 
neglected in the province,” said Marmaduke, disconcerted, 
and deeply blushing, “ and only of late have I deemed 
the languages fit study for those not reared for our 
Mother Church. 

“ Fie, sir, fie ! Correct that error, I pray thee. Latin 
teaches the courtier how to thrive, the soldier how to 
manoeuvre, the husbandman how to sow; and if we 
churchmen are more cunning, as the profane call us (and 
the prelate smiled), than ye of the laity, the Latin must 
answer for the sins of our learning.” 

With this, the archbishop passed his arm affectionately 
through his brother’s, and said, “Beshrew me, Montagu, 
thou lookest worn and weary. Surely thou lackest food, 
and supper shall be hastened. Even I, who have but 
slender appetite, grow hungered in these cool gloaming 
hours.” 

“Dismiss my comrade, George — I would speak to 
thee,” whispered Montagu. 

“ Thou knowest not Latin ? ” said the archbishop, 
turning with a compassionate eye to Nevile, whose own 


352 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

eye was amorously fixed on the delicate confectioneries 
— “never too late to learn. Hold, here is a grammar 
of the verbs, that, with mine own hand, I have drawn up 
for youth. Study thine amo and thy moneo^ while I 
confer on church matters with giddy Montagu. I shall 
expect, ere we sup, that thou wilt have mastered the first 
tenses. 

“But ” 

“ Oh, nay, nay ; but me no buts. Thou art too tough, 
I fear me, for flagellation, a wondrous improver of tender 
youth” — and the prelate forced his grammar into the 
reluctant hands of Marmaduke, and sauntered down one 
of the solitary alleys with his brother. 

Long and earnest was their conference, and at one 
time keen were their disputes. 

The archbishop had very little of the energy of Mon- 
tagu or the impetuosity of Warwick, but he had far more 
of what we now call mind, as distinct from talent, than 
either ; that is, he had not their capacities for action, but 
he had a judgment and sagacity that made him considered 
a wise and sound adviser; this he owed principally to 
the churchman’s love of ease, and to his freedom from 
the wear and tear of the passions which gnawed the great 
minister and the aspiring courtier ; his natural intellect 
was also fostered by much learning. George Nevile had 
been reared, by an Italian ecclesiastic, in all the subtle 
diplomacy of the church ; and his ambition, despising lay 
objects (though he consented to hold the office of chan- 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 353 

cellor), was concentrated in that kingdom over kings, 
which had animated the august dorainators of religious 
Koine. Though, as we have said, still in that age when 
the affections are usually vivid,* George Nevile loved no 
human creature — not even his brothers — not even King 
Edward, who, with all his vices, possessed so eminently 
the secret that wins men’s hearts. His early and entire 
absorption in the great religious community, which stood 
apart from the laymen in order to control them, alienated 
him from his kind ; and his superior instruction only 
served to feed him with a calm and icy contempt for all 
that prejudice, as he termed it, held dear and precious. 
He despised the knight’s wayward honor — the burgher’s 
crafty honesty. For him no such thing as principle 
existed ; and conscience itself lay dead in the folds of a 
fancied exemption from all responsibility to the dull herd, 
that were but as wool and meat to the churchman-shep- 
herd. But withal, if somewhat pedantic, he had in his 
manner a suavity and elegance and polish, which suited 
well his high station, and gave persuasion to his counsels. 
In all externals, he was as little like a priest as the high- 
born prelates of that day usually were. In dress, he 
rivalled the fopperies of the Plantagenet brothers. In 
the chase, he was more ardent than Warwick had been 
in his earlier youth ; and a dry sarcastic humor, some- 

* He was consecrated Bishop of Exeter at the age of twenty, at 
twenty-six he became Archbishop of York, and was under thirty 
at the time referred to in the text. 

30 * 


X 


354 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

times elevated into wit, gave liveliness to his sagacious 
converse. 

Montagu desired that the archbishop and himself 
should demand solemn audience of Edward, and gravely 
remonstrate with the king on the impropriety of receiving 
the brother of a rival suitor, while Warwick was nego- 
tiating the marriage of Margaret with a prince of France. 

“ Nay,” said the archbishop, with a bland smile, that 
fretted Montagu to the quick — “ surely, even a baron, a 
knight, a franklin — a poor priest like myself, would rise 
against the man who dictated to his hospitality. Is a 
king less irritable than baron, knight, franklin, and priest? 
— or rather, being, as it were, per legem, lord of all, 
hath he not irritability eno’ for all four ? Ay — tut and 
tush as thou wilt, John — but thy sense must do justice 
to my counsel at the last. I know Edward well ; he 
hath something of mine own idleness and ease of temper, 
but with more of the dozing lion than priests, who have 
only, look you, the mildness of the dove. Prick up his 
higher spirit, not by sharp remonstrance, but by seeming 
trust. Observe to him, with thy gay, careless laugh — 
which, methinks, thou hast somewhat lost of late — that 
with any other prince, Warwick might suspect some 
snare — some humiliating overthrow of his embassage — 
but that all men knew how steadfast in faith and honor 
is Edward lY.” 

“Truly,” said Montagu, with a forced smile, “you 
understand mankind ; but yet, bethink you — suppose this 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


355 


fail, and Warwick return to England to hear that he nath 
been cajoled and fooled ; that the Margaret he hath 
crossed the seas to affiance to the brother of Louis is 
betrothed to Charolois — bethink you, I say, what manner 
of heart beats under our brother’s mail.” 

“ Impiger iracundus ! said the archbishop ; “ a very 
Achilles, to whom our English Agamemnon, if he cross 
him, is a baby. All this is sad truth ; our parents spoilt 
him in his childhood, and glory in his youth, and wealth, 
power, success, in his manhood. Ay I if Warwick be 
chafed, it will be as the stir of the sea-serpent, which, 
according to the Icelanders, moves a world. Still, the 
best way to prevent the danger is to enlist the honor of 
the king in his behalf — to show that our eyes are open, 
but that we disdain to doubt, and are frank to confide. 
Meanwhile, send messages and warnings privately to 
Warwick.” 

These reasonings finally prevailed with Montagu, and 
the brothers returned with one mind to the house. Here, 
as after their ablutions, they sat down to the evening 
meal, the archbishop remembered poor Marmaduke, and 
despatched to him one of his thirty household chaplains. 
Marmaduke was found fast asleep over the second tense 
of the verb amo. 


356 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


CHAPTER YI. 

The arrival of the Count de la Roche, and the various excitement 
produced on many Personages by that Event. 

The prudence of the archbishop’s counsel was so far 
made manifest, that on the next day Montagu found all 
remonstrance would have been too late. The Count de 
la Roche had already landed, and was on his way to 
London. The citizens, led by Rivers partially to suspect 
the object of the visit, were delighted not only by the 
prospect of a brilliant pageant, but by the promise such 
a visit conveyed of a continued peace with their commercial 
ally ; and the preparations made by the wealthy merchants 
increased the bitterness and discontent of Montagu. At 
length, at the head of a gallant and princely retinue, the 
Count de la Roche entered London. Though Hastings 
made no secret of his distaste to the Count de la Roche's 
visit, it became his office as lord chamberlain to meet the 
count at Blackwall, and escort him and his train, in 
gilded barges, to the palace. 

In the great hall of the Tower, in which the story of 
Antiochus was painted, by the great artists employed 
under Henry III., and on the elevation of the dais, be- 
hind which, across Gothic columns, stretched draperies 
of cloth of gold, was placed Edward’s chair of state. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


35t 


Around him were grouped the Dukes of Clarence and 
Gloucester, the Lords Worcester, Montagu, Rivers. 
D’Eyncourt, St. John, Raoul de Fulke, and others 
But at the threshold of the chamber stood Anthony 
Woodville the knightly challenger, his knee bound by 
the ladye-badge of the S S. ; and his fine person 
clad in white-flowered velvet of Genoa, adorned with 
pearls. Stepping forward, as the count appeared, the 
gallant Englishman bent his knee half-way to the ground, 
and raising the count’s hand to his lips, said in French 
— “ Deign, noble sir, to accept the gratitude of one who 
were not worthy of encounter from so peerless a hand, 
save by the favor of the ladies of England, and your own 
courtesy, which ennobles him whom it stoops to.” So 
saying, he led the count towards the king. 

De la Roche, an experienced and profound courtier, 
and justly deserving Hall’s praise as a man of '‘great 
witte, courage, valiantness, and liberalitie,” did not affect 
to conceal the admiration which the remarkable presence 
of Edward never failed to excite ; lifting his hand to his 
eyes, as if to shade them from a sudden blaze of light, he 
would have fallen on both knees, but Edward with quick 
condescension raised him, and, rising himself, said gaily — 

“ Nay, Count de la Roche, brave and puissant cheva- 
lier, who hath crossed the seas in honor of knighthood 
and the ladies — we would, indeed, that our roiaulme 
boasted a lord like thee, from whom we might ask such 
homage. But since thou art not our subject, it consoles 
us at least that thou art our guest. By our halidame, 


358 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

Lord Scales, thou must look well to tby lance and thy 
steed’s girths, for never, I trow, hast thou met a cham- 
pion of goodlier strength and knightlier metal.” 

“My lord, king,” answered the count, “I fear me, in- 
deed, that a, knight like the Sieur Anthony, who fights 
under the eyes of, such a king, will prove invincible. 
Did kings enter the lists with kings, where, through broad 
Christendom, find a compeer for your highness?” 

“Your brother, Sir Count, if fame lies not,” returned 
Edward, slightly laughing, and lightly touching the 
bastard’s shoulder, “ were a fearful lance to encounter, 
even though Charlemagne himself were to revive, with 
his twelve paladins at his back. Tell us. Sir Count,” 
added the king, drawing himself up — “tell us, for we 
soldiers are curious in such matters, hath not the Count 
of Charolois the advantage of all here in sinews and 
stature ? ” ^ 

“ Sire,” returned De la Roche, “ my princely brother 
is indeed mighty with the brand and battle-axe, but your 
grace is taller by half the head, — and, peradventure, of 
even a more stalwart build, but that mere strength in 
your highness is not that gift of God which strikes the 
beholder most.” 

Edward smiled good-humoredly at a compliment, the 
truth of which was too obvious to move much vanity, 
and said with a royal and knightly grace. — “ Our house 
of York hath been taught. Sir Count, to estimate men’s 
beauty by men’s deeds, and therefore the Count of Cha- 
rolois hath long been known to us — who, alas, have seen 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


359 


him not ! — as the fairest gentleman of Europe. My 
Lord Scales, we must here publicly crave your pardon. 
Our brother-in-law, Sir Count, would fain have claimed 
his right to hold you his guest, and have graced himself 
by exclusive service to your person. We have taken 
from him his lawful office, for we kings are jealous, and 
would not have our subjects more honored than our- 
selves.” Edward turned round to his courtiers as he 
spoke, and saw that his last words had called a haughty 
and angry look to the watchful countenance of Montagu. 

Lord Hastings,” he continued, “to your keeping, as 
our representative, we intrust this gentleman. He must 
need refreshment, ere we present him to our queen.” 

The count bowed to the ground, and reverently with- 
drew from the royal presence, accompanied by Hastings. 
Edward then, singling Anthony Woodville and Lord 
Rivers from the group, broke, up the audience, and, 
followed by those two noblemen, quitted the hall. 

Montagu, whose countenance had recovered the digni- 
fied and high-born calm habitual to it, turned to the Duke 
of Clarence, and observed, indifferently — “The Count 
de la Roche hath a goodly mien, and a fair tongue.” 

“ Pest on these Burgundians I ” answered Clarence, in 
an under-tone, and drawing Montagu aside — “I would 
wager ray best greyhound to a scullion’s cur, that our 
English knights will lower their burgonots.” 

“ Nay, sir, an idle holiday show. What matters whose 
lance breaks, or whose destrier stumbles?” 


360 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

“Will you not, yourself, cousin Montagu — you, who 
are so peerless in the joust — take part in the fray ?” 

“ I, your highness — I, the brother of the Earl of War- 
wick, whom this pageant hath been devised by the Wood- 
villes to mortify and disparage in his solemn embassy to 
Burgundy’s mightiest foe! — I!” 

“ Sooth to say,” said the young prince, much em- 
barrassed, “ it grieves me sorely to hear thee speak as if 
Warwick would be angered at this pastime. For, look 
you, Montagu — I, thinking only of my hate to Burgundy, 
and my zeal for our English honor, have consented, as 
high constable, and despite my grudge to the Woodvilles, 

to bear the bassinet of our own champion — and ” 

Saints in heaven ! ” exclaimed Montagu, with a burst 
of his fierce brother’s temper, which he immediately 
checked, and changed into a tone that concealed, beneath 
outward respect, the keenest irony, “ I crave your pardon, 
humbly, for ray vehemence. Prince of Clarence. I sud- 
denly remember me, that humility is the proper virtue of 
knighthood. Your grace does indeed set a notable ex- 
ample of that virtue to the peers of England ; and my poor 
brother’s infirmity of pride will stand rebuked for aye, 
when he hears that George Plantagenet bore the bassinet 
of Anthony Woodville.” 

“ But it is for the honor of the ladies,” said Clarence, 

falteringly, “in honor of the fairest maid of all the 

flower of English beauty— the Lady Isabel— that I ” 

“ Your highness will pardon me,” interrupted Montagu, 
“ but I do trust to your esteem for our poor and insulted 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


36.1 


house of Nevile, so far as to be assured that the name of 
my niece, Isabel, will not be submitted to the ribald com- 
ments of a base-born Burgundian.” 

“ Then I will break no lance in the lists ! ” 

** As it likes you, prince,” returned Montagu, shortly ; 
and, with a low bow, he quitted the chamber, and was 
striding to the outer gate of the Tower, when a sweet, 
clear voice behind him called him by his name. He 
turned abruptly, to meet the dark eye and all-subduing 
smile of the boy-Duke of Gloucester. 

“ A word with you, Montagu — noblest and most 
prized, with your princely brothers, of the champions of 
our house, — I read your generous indignation with our 
poor Clarence. Ay, sir ! — ay! — it was a weakness in 
him that moved even me. But you have not now to learn 
that his nature, how excellent soever, is somewhat un- 
steady. His judgment alone lacks weight and substance, 

ever persuaded against his better reason by those who 

approach his infirmer side. But if it be true that our 
cousin Warwick intends for him the hand of the peerless 
Isabel, wiser heads will guide his course.” 

“ My brother,” said Montagu, greatly softened, “ is 
much beholden to your highness for a steady countenance 
and friendship, for which I also, believe me — and the 
families of Beauchamp, Montagu, and Nevile — are duly 
grateful. But to speak plainly (which your grace’s 
youthful candor, so all-acknowledged, will permit), the 
kinsmen of the queen do now so aspire to rule this land, 
to marry or forbid to marry, not only our own children, 
I. —31 


862 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

but your illustrious father’s, that I foresee, in this visit 
of the bastard Anthony, the most signal disgrace to War- 
wick that ever king passed upon ambassador or gentle- 
man. And this moves me more! — yea, I vow to St. 
George, my patron, it moves me more — by the thought 
of danger to your royal house, than by the grief of slight 
to mine; for Warwick — but you know him.” 

“ Montagu, you must soothe and calm your brother if 
chafed. I impose that task on your love for us. Alack, 
would that Edward listened more to me and less to the 
queen’s kith : — These Woodvilles 1 — and yet they may 
live to move not wrath but pity. If aught snapped the 
thread of Edward’s life (Holy Paul forbid !), what would 
chance to Elizabeth — her brothers — her children?” 

“ Her children would mount the throne that our right 
hands built,” said Montagu, sullenly. 

“ Ah I think you so ? — you rejoice me ! I had feared 
that the barons might, that the commons would, that the 
church must, pronounce the unhappy truth, that — but 
you look amazed, my lord ! Alas, my boyish years are 
too garrulous I ” 

‘‘I catch not your highness’s meaning.” 

‘'Pooh, pooh! By St. Paul, your seeming dulness 
proves your loyalty; but, with me, the king’s brother, 
frankness were safe. Thou knowest well that the king 
was betrothed before to the Lady Eleanor Talbot ; that 
such betrothal, now set aside by the pope, renders his 
marriage with Elizabeth against law ; that his children 
may (would to heaven it were not so !) be set aside as 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


363 


bastards, when Edward’s life no longer shields them from 
the sharp eyes of men.” 

“Ah!” said Montagu, thoughtfully; “and in that 
case, George of Clarence would wear the crown, and his 
children reign in England.” 

“Our Lord forefend,” said Richard, “that I should 
say that Warwick thought of this when he deemed 
George worthy of the hand of Isabel. Nay, it could not 
be so ; for, however clear the claim, strong ahd powerful 
would be those who would resist it, and Clarence is not, 
as you will see, the man who can wrestle boldly — even 
for a throne. Moreover, he is too addicted to wine and 
pleasure to bid fair to outlive the king.” 

Montagu fixed his penetrating eyes on Richard, but 
dropped them, abashed, before that steady, deep, unre- 
vealing gaze, which seemed to pierce into other hearts, 
and show nothing of the heart within. 

“ Happy Clarence I ” resumed the prince, with a heavy 
sigh, and after a brief pause — “a Nevile’s husband and 
a Warwick’s son! — what can the saints do more for 
men ? You must excuse his errors — all our errors — to 
your brother. You may not know, perad venture, sweet 
Montagu, how deep an interest I have in maintaining all 
amity between Lord Warwick and the king. For me- 
thinks there is one face fairer than fair Isabel’s, and one 
man more to be envied than even Clarence. Fairest face 
to me in the wide world is the Lady Anne’s — happiest 
man. between the cradle and the grave, is he whom the 
Lady Anne shall call her lord ! and if I — oh, look you, 


364 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


Montagu, let there he no breach between Warwick and 
the king ! Fare-you-well, dear lord and cousin — I go to 
Baynard’s Castle till these feasts are over.'’ 

“Does not your grace,” said Montagu, recovering 
from the surprise into which one part of Gloucester’s ad- 
dress had thrown him — “does, not your grace — so 
skilled in lance and horsemanship — preside at the lists ? ” 

“Montagu, I love your brother well enough to dis- 
please my king. The great earl shall not say, at least, 
that Richard Plantagenet, in his absence, forgot the 
reverence due to loyalty and merit. Tell him that ; and 
if I seem (unlike Clarence) to forbear to confront the 
queen and her kindred, it is because youth should make 
no enemies — not the less for that, should princes forget 
JO friends.” 

Richard said this with a tone of deep feeling, and fold- 
ing his arms within his furred surcoat, walked slowly on 
to a small postern admitting to the river; but there, 
pausing by a buttress which concealed him till Montagu 
had left the yard, instead of descending to his barge, he 
turned back into the royal garden. Here several of the 
court of both sexes were assembled, conferring on the 
event of the day. Richard halted at a distance, and con- 
templated their gay dresses and animated countenances 
with something between melancholy and scorn upon his 
young brow. One of the most remarkable social charac- 
teristics of the middle ages is the prematurity at which 
the great arrived at manhood, shared in its passions, and 
indulged its ambitions. Among the numerous instances 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


365 


in our own and otlier countries that might be selected 
from history, few are more striking than that of this 
Duke of Gloucester — great in camp and in council, at 
an age when now-a-days a youth is scarcely trusted to 
the discipline of a college. The whole of his portentous 
career was closed, indeed, before the public life of modern 
ambition usually commences. Little could those accus- 
tomed to see, on our stage, ‘‘the elderly ruffian”* our 
actors represent, imagine that at the opening of Shak- 
speare’s play of “ Richard the Third,” the hero was but 
in- his nineteenth year ; but at the still more juvenile age 
in which he appears in this our record, Richard of Glou- 
cester was older in intellect, and almost in experience, 
than many a wise man at the date of thirty-three — the 
fatal age when his sun set for ever on the field of Bo’s- 
worth I 

The young prince, then, eyed the gaudy, fluttering, 
babbling assemblage before him with mingled melancholy 
and scorn. Not that he felt, with the acuteness which 
belongs to modern sentiment, his bodily defects amidst 
that circle of the stately and the fair, for they were not 
of a nature to weaken his arm in war or lessen his per- 
suasive influence in peace. But it was rather that sad- 
ness which so often comes over an active and ambitious 
intellect in early youth, when it pauses to ask, in sorrow 
and disdain, what its plots and counterplots, its restless- 
ness and strife, are really worth. The scene before him 


31 * 


* Sliai-ou 'I’linier. 


866 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


was of pleasure — but in pleasure, neither the youth nor 
the manhood of Richard III. was ever pleased ; though 
not absolutely of the rigid austerity of Amadis, or our 
Saxon Edward, he was comparatively free from the 
licentiousness of his times. His passions were too large 
for frivolous excitements. Already the Italian, or, as it 
is falsely called, the Machiavelian policy, was pervading 
the intellect of Europe, and the effects of its ruthless, 
grand, and deliberate state-craft, are visible from the 
accession of Edward lY. till the close of Elizabeth’s 
reign. With this policy, which reconciled itself to crime 
as a necessity of wisdom, was often blended a refinement 
of character which disdained vulgar vices. Not skilled 
alone in those knightly accomplishments which induced 
Caxton, with propriety, to dedicate to Richard “ The 
Book of the Order of Chivalry,” the Duke of Glouces- 
ter’s more peaceful amusements were borrowed from 
severer Graces than those which presided over the tastes 
of his royal brothers. He loved, even to passion, the 
Arts, Music — especially of the more Doric and warlike 
kind — Painting, and Architecture ; he was a reader of 
books, as of men — the books that become princes — and 
hence that superior knowledge of the principles of law 
and of commerce, which his brief reign evinced. More 
like an Italian in all things than the careless Norman or 
the simple Saxon, Machiavel might have made of his 
character a companion, though a contrast, to that of 
Gastruccio Castrucani. 

The crowd murmured and rustled at the distance, and 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 361 

Still, with folded arms, Richard gazed aloof, when a lady, 
entering the garden from the palace, passed by him so 
hastily, that she brushed his surcoat, and, turning round 
in surprise, made a low reverence, as she exclaimed — 
“ Prince Richard 1 and alone amidst so many ! ” 

“Lady,” said the duke, “it was a sudden hope that 
brought me into this garden, — and that was the hope 
to see your face shining above the rest.” 

“Your highness jests,” returned the lady, though her 
superb countenance and haughty carriage evinced no 
opinion of herself so humble as her words would imply. 

“ My lady of Bonville,” said the young duke, laying his 
hand on her arm, “ mirth is not in my thoughts at this 
hour.” 

“ I believe your highness ; for the Lord Richard Plan- 
tagenet is not one of the Woodvilles. The mirth is 
theirs to-day,” 

“ Let who will have mirth — it is the breath of a mo- 
ment. Mirth cannot tarnish glory — the mirror in whicn 
the gods are glassed.” 

“ I understand you, my loixl,” said the proud lady ; and 
her face, before stern and high, brightened into so lovely 
a change, so soft and winning a smile, that Gloucester 
no longer marvelled that that smile had rained so large 
an influence on the fate and heart of his favorite Hastings. 
The beauty of this noble woman was indeed remarkable 
in its degree, and peculiar in its character. She bore a 
stronger likeness in feature to the archbishop, than to 
either of her other brotliers ; for the prelate had the 


368 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

straight and smooth outline of the Greeks — not, like 
Montagu and Warwick, the lordlier and manlier aquiline 
of the Norman race, — and his complexion was feminine 
in its pale clearness. But though in this resembling the 
subtlest of the brethren, the fair sister shared with M ar- 
wick an expression, if haughty, singularly frank and can- 
did in its imperious majesty ; she had the same splendid 
and steady brilliancy of eye — the same quick quiver of 
the lip, speaking of nervous susceptibility and haste of 
mood. The hateful fashion of that day, which pervaded 
all ranks, from the highest to the lowest, was the prodigal 
use of paints and cosmetics, and all imaginable artificial 
adjuncts of a spurious beauty. This extended often even 
to the men, and the sturdiest warrior deemed it no shame 
to recur to such arts of the toilet as the vainest wanton 
in our day would never venture to acknowledge. But 
the Lady Bonville, proudly confident of her beauty, and 
possessing a purity of mind that revolted from the little- 
ness of courting admiration, contrasted forcibly in this 
the ladies of the court. Her cheek was of a marble 
whiteness, though occasionally a rising flush through the 
clear, rich, transparent skin, showed that in earlier youth 
the virgin bloom had not been absent from the surface. 
There w'as in her features, when they reposed, somewhat 
of the trace of suffering, — of a struggle, past it may be, 
but still remembered. But when she spoke, those fea- 
tures lighted up and undulated in such various and kin- 
dling life as to dazzle, to bewitch, or to awe the beholder, 
according as the impulse moulded the expression. Her 


• THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 36^ 

dress suited her lofty and spotless character. Henry VI. 
might have contemplated, with holy pleasure, its matronly 
decorum ; the jewelled gorget ascended to the rounded 
and dimpled chin ; the arras were bare only at the wrists, 
where the blue veins were seen through a skin of snow ; 
the dark glossy locks, which her tire-woman boasted, 
when released, swept the ground, were gathered into a 
modest and simple braid, surmounted by the beseeming 
coronet that proclaimed her rank. The Lady Bonville 
might have stood by the side of Cornelia, the model of a 
young and high-born matron,. in whose virtue the honor 
of man might securely dwell. 

“ I understand you, ray lord,” she said, with her bright, 
thankful smile; -“and as Lord Warwick’s sister, I am 
grateful.” 

“Your love for the great earl proves you are noble 
enough to forgive,” said Richard, meaningly. “ Ray, 
chide me not with that lofty look ; you know that there 
are no secrets between Hastings and Gloucester.” 

“ My lord duke, the head of a noble house hath the 
right to dispose of the hands of the daughters ; I know 
nothing in Lord Warwick to forgive.” 

But she turned her head as she spoke, and a tear for 
a moment trembled in that haughty eye. 

“Lady,” said Richard, moved to admiration, “to you 
let me confide my secret. I would be your nepliew. Boy 
though I be in yearns, my heart beats as loudly as a 
man’s; and that heart beats for Anne.” 

Y 


370 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


“The love of Richard Plantagenet honors even War- 
wick’s daughter I ” 

“Think you so? Then stand my friend; and, being 
thus my friend, intercede with Warwick, if he angers at 
the silly holiday of this Woodville pageant.” 

“ Alas, sir ! you know that Warwick listens to no inter- 
ceders between himself and his passions. But what then ? 
Grant him wronged, aggrieved, trifled with, — what then ? 
Can he injure the house of York?” 

Richard looked in some surprise at the fair speaker. 

“ Can he injure the house of York ? — Marry, yes,” he 
replied, bluntly. 

“But for what end? Whom else should he put upon 
the throne ? ” 

“ What if he forgive the Lancastrians ? What if ” 

“ Utter not the thought, prince, breathe it not,” ex- 
claimed the Lady Bonville, almost fiercely. “ I love and 

honor my brave brother, despite — despite ” She 

paused a moment, blushed, and proceeded rapidly, with- 
out concluding the sentence, “ I love him as a woman of 
his house must love the hero who forms its proudest 
boast. But if for any personal grudge, any low ambition, 
any rash humor, the son of my father, Salisbury, could 
forget that Margaret of Anjou placed the gory head of 
that old man upon the gates of York, could by word or 
deed abet the cause of usurpiug and bloody Lancaster, — 
I would — I would ; — Out upon my sex ! I could do 
nought but weep the glory of Nevile and Monthermer 
gone for ever.” 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


371 


Before Richard could reply, the sound of musical 
instruments, ana a procession of heralds and pages pro- 
ceeding from the palace, announced the approach of Ed- 
ward. He caught the hand of the dame of Bonville, 
lifted it to his lips, and saying, “ May fortune one day 
permit me to face as the earl’s son the earl’s foes,” made 
his graceful reverence, glided from the garden, gained 
his barge, and was rowed to the huge pile of Baynard’s 
Castle, lately reconstructed, but in a gloomy and barbaric 
taste, and in which, at that time, he principally resided 
with his mother, the once peerless Rose of Raby. 

The Lady of Bonville paused a moment, and in that 
pause her countenance recovered its composure. She 
then passed on, with a stately step, towards a group of 
the ladies of the court, and her eye noted with proud 
pleasure that the highest names of the English knight- 
hood and nobility, comprising the numerous connections 
• of her family, formed a sullen circle apart from the rest, 
betokening, by their grave countenances and moody 
whispers, how sensitively they felt the slight to Lord 
Warwick’s embassy in the visit of the Count de la Roche, 
and how little they were disposed to cringe to the rising 
sun of the Woodvilles. There, collected into a puissance 
whose discontent had sufficed to shake a firmer throne 
(the young Raoul de Fulke, the idolater of Warwick, 
the personation in himself of the old Norman seignorie, 
in ^heir centre), with folded arms and lowering brows, 
stood the earl’s kinsmen, the Lords Fitzhugh and Faucon- 
berg ; with them, Thomas Lord Stanley, a prudent noble, 


.^72 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

who rarely sided with a malcontent, and the Lord St. 
John, and the heir of the ancient Bergavennies, and many 
another chief, under whose banner marched an army I 
Richard of Gloucester had shown his wit in refusing to 
mingle in intrigues which provoked the ire of that martial 
phalanx. As the Lady of Bonville swept by these 
gentlemen, their murmur of respectful homage, their pro- 
found salutation, and unbonneted heads, contrasted forci- 
bly with the slight and grave, if not scornful, obeisance 
they had just rendered to one of the queen’s sisters, who 
had passed a moment before in the same direction. The 
lady still moved on, and came suddenly across the path 
of Hastings, as, in his robes of state, he issued from the 
palace. Their eyes met, and both changed color. 

“ So, my lord chamberlain,” said the dame, sarcas- 
tically, “the Count de la Roche is, I hear, consigned to 
your especial charge.” 

“ A charge the chamberlain cannot refuse, and which * 
William Hastings does not covet.” 

“A king had never asked Montagu and Warwick to 
consider amongst their duties any charge they had deemed 
dishonoring.” 

“ Dishonoring, Lady Bonville ! ” exclaimed Hastings, 
with a bent brow and a flushed cheek, — “ neither Mon- 
tagu nor Warwick bad, with safety, applied to me the 
word that has just passed your lips.” 

“ I crave your pardon,” answered Katherine, bitterly. 

“ Mine articles of faith in men’s honor are obsolete or 
heretical. I had deemed it dishonoring in a noble nature 


THE LAST OF THE BAPONS, 373 

to countenance insult to a noble eiieniy in his absence. I 
had deemed it dishonoring in a brave soldier, a well-born 
gentleman (now from his valiantness, merit, and wisdom, 
become a puissant and dreaded lord), to sink into that 
lackeydom and varletaille which falsehood and cringing 
have stablished in these walls, and baptized under the 
name of ‘courtiers.’ Better had Katherine de Bonville 
esteemed Lord Hastings had he rather fallen under a 
king’s displeasure than debased his better self to a Wood- 
ville’s dastard schemings.” 

“ Lady, you are cruel and unjust, like all your haughty 
’•ace. And idle were reply to one who, of all persons, 
should have judged me better. For the rest, if this 
mummery humbles Lord Warwick, gramercy I there is 
nothing in my memory that should make my share in it a 
gall to my conscience ; nor do I owe the Neviles so large 
a gratitude, that rather than fret the pile of their pride, 
I should throw down the scaffolding on which my fearless 
step hath clombe to as fair a height, and one perhaps that 
may overlook as long a posterity, as the best baron that 
ever quartered the Raven Eagle and the Dun Bull. But 
(resumed Hastings, with a withering sarcasm) doubtless 
the lady de Bonville more admires the happy lord who 
holds himself, by right of pedigree, superior to all things 
that make the statesman wise, the scholar learned, and 
the soldier famous. Way there — back, gentles,'’ — and 
Hastings turned to the crowd behind,— “Way there, for 
my lord of Harrington and Bonville!” 

1 . —32 


3*14 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

The by-standers smiled at each other as they obeyed ; 
and a heavy, shambling, graceless man, dressed in the 
most exaggerated fopperies of the day, but with a face 
which even sickliness, that refines most faces, could not 
divest of the most vacant dulness, and a mien and gait 
to which no attire could give dignity, passed through the 
group, bowing awkwardly to the right and left, and say- 
ing, in a thick, husky voice — “You are too good, sirs 
— too good: I must not presume so over-much on my 
seignorie. The king would keep me — he would indeed, 
sirs ; urn — um — why Katherine — dame — thy stiff gorget 
makes me ashamed of thee. Thou wouldst not think, 
Lord Hastings, that Katherine had a white skin — a par- 
lous white skin. La, you now — fie on these mufflers I 

The courtiers sneered ; Hastings, with a look of ma- 
lignant and pitiless triumph, eyed the lady of Bonville. 
For a moment the color went and came across her trans- 
parent cheek, but the confusion passed, and returning the 
insulting gaze of her ancient lover with an eye of un- 
speakable majesty, she placed her arm upon her lord’s, 
and saying calmly : — “An English matron cares but to 
be fair in her husband’s eyes,” — drew him away; and 
the words and the manner of the lady were so dignified 
and simple, that the courtiers hushed their laughter, and 
for the moment the lord of such a woman was not only 
envied but respected. 

While this scene had passed, the procession, preceding 
Edward, had filed into the garden in long and stately 
order. From another entrance, Elizabeth, the Frincesa 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

Margaret, and the Duchess of Bedford, with their trains, 
had already issued, and were now ranged upon a flight 
of marble steps, backed by a columned alcove, hung with 
velvets striped into the royal baudekin, while the stairs 
themselves were covered with leathern carpets, powdered 
with the white rose and the fleur-de-lis ; either side lined 
by the bearers of the many banners of Edward, display- 
ing the white lion of March, the black bull of Clare, the 
cross of Jerusalem, the dragon of Arragon, and the rising 
sun, which he had assumed as his peculiar war badge 
since the battle of Mortimer’s Cross. Again, and louder, 
came the flourish of music ; and a murmur through the 
crowd, succeeded by deep silence, announced the entrance 
of the king. He appeared, leading by the hand the Count 
de la Roche, and followed by the Lords Scales, Rivers, 
Dorset, and the Duke of Clarence. All eyes were bent 
upon the count, and though seen to disadvantage by the 
side of the comeliest, and stateliest, and most gorgeously 
attired prince in Christendom, his high forehead, bright 
sagacious eye, and powerful frame, did not disappoint the 
expectations founded upon the fame of one equally subtle 
in council and redoubted in war. 

The royal host and the princely guest made their way, 
where Elizabeth, blazing in jewels and cloth of gold, 
shone royally, begirt by the ladies of her brilliant court. 
At her right hand stood her mother, at her left, the Prin- 
cess Margaret. 

“ I present to you, my Elizabeth,” said Edward, “ a 
princely gentleman, to whom we nevertheless wish all ib- 


376 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


fortune, — for we cannot desire that he may subdue onr 
knights, and we would fain hope that he may be conquered 
by our ladies.” 

‘^The last hope is already fulfilled,” said the count, 
gallantly, as on his knee he kissed the fair hand extended 
to him. Then rising, and gazing full and even boldly 
upon the young Princess Margaret, he added — “I have 
seen too often the picture of the Lady Margaret not to 
be aware that I stand in that illustrious presence.” 

“ Her picture I Sir Count,” said the queen ; we knew 
not that it had been ever limned.” 

“Pardon me, it was done by stealth.” 

“And where have you seen it ? ” 

“Worn at the heart of my brother the Count of Cha- 
rolois !” answered De la Roche, in a whispered tone. 

Margaret blushed with evident pride and delight ; and 
the wily envoy, leaving the impression his words had 
made to take their due effect,. addressed himself, with all 
the gay vivacity he possessed, to the fair queen and her 
haughty mother. 

After a brief time spent in this complimentary con- 
verse, the count then adjourned to inspect the menagerie, 
of which the king was very proud. Edward, offering his 
hand to his queen, led the way, and the Duchess of Bed- 
ford, directing the count to Margaret by a shrewd and 
silent glance of her eye, so far smothered her dislike to 
Clarence as to ask his highness to attend herself. 

“Ah ! lady,” whispered the count, as the procession 
moved along, “ what thrones would not Charolois resign 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 37'! 

for the hand that his unworthy envoy is allowed to 
touch I ” 

“ Sir,’^ said Margaret, demurely looking down, “the 
Count of Charolois is a lord, who, if report be true, 
makes war his only mistress.” 

“ Because the only living mistress his great heart could 
serve is denied to his love I Ah, poor lord and brother, 
what new reasons for eternal war to Burgundy, whet. 
France, not only his foe, becomes his rival!” 

Margaret sighed, and the count continued, till by de- 
grees he warmed the royal maiden from her reserve ; and 
his eye grew brighter, and a triumphant smile played 
about his lips, when, after the visit to the menagerie, the 
procession re-entered the palace, and the Lord Hastings 
conducted the count to the bath prepared for him, pre- 
vious to the crowning banquet of the night. And far 
more luxurious and more splendid than might be deemed 
by those who read but the general histories of that san- 
guinary time, or the inventories of furniture in the houses 
even of the great barons, was the accommodation which 
Edward afforded to his guest. His apartments and 
chambers were hung with white silk and linen, the floors 
covered with richly-woven carpets ; the counterpane of 
his bed was cloth of gold, trimmed with ermine ; the 
cupboard shone with vessels of silver and gold ; and over 
two baths were pitched tents of white cloth of Rennes, 
fringed with silver.* 

* See Madden’s Narrative of the Lord Grauthuse: “Archajo* 
logia,” ISi’O. 

32 * 


378 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

Agreeably to the manners of the time, Lord Hastings 
assisted to disrobe the count; and, the more to bear him 
company, afterwards undressed himself and bathed in 
the one bath, while the count refreshed his limbs in the 
other. 

“Pri’thee,” said De la Roche, drawing aside the cur- 
tain of his tent, and putting forth his head — “pri’thee, 
my Lord Hastings, deign to instruct my ignorance of a 
court which I would fain know well, and let me weet, 
whether the splendor of your king, far exceeding what I 
was taught to look for, is derived from his revenue, 
as sovereign of England, or chief of the House of 
York ? » 

“ Sir,’^ returned Hastings, gravely, putting out his own 
head — “it is Edward’s happy fortune to be the weal- 
thiest proprietor in England, except the Earl of War- 
wick, and thus he is enabled to indulge a state which yet 
oppresses not his people.” 

“Except the Earl of Warwick,” repeated the count, 
musingly, as the fumes of the odors, with which the bath 
was filled, rose in a cloud over his long hair — “ ill would 
fare that subject, in most lands, who was as wealthy as 
his king I You have heard that Warwick has met King 
Louis at Rouen, and that they are inseparable ? ” 

“ It becomes an ambassador to win grace of him he is 
sent to please.” 

“ But none win grace of Louis whom Louis does not 
dupe.” 

“Lou know not Lord Warwick, Sir Count. His mind 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 379 

is SO strong and so frankj that it is as hard to deceive 
him, as it is for him to be deceived.” 

“ Time will show,” said the count, pettishly, and he 
withdrew his head into the tent. 

And now there appeared the attendants, with hippo- 
eras, syrups, and comfits, by way of giving appetite for 
the supper, so that no farther opportunity for private 
conversation was left to the two lords. While the count 
was dressing, the Lord Scales entered with a superb 
gown, clasped with jewels, and lined with minever, with 
which Edward had commissioned him to present the 
Bastard. In this robe the Lord Scales insisted upon 
enduing his antagonist with his own hands, and the three 
knights then repaired to the banquet. At the king’s 
table no male personage out of the royal family sat, 
except Lord Rivers — as Elizabeth’s father — and the 
Count de la Roche, placed between Margaret and the 
Duchess of Bedford. 

At another table the great peers of the realm feasted 
under the presidence of Anthony Woodville, while, en- 
tirely filling one side of the hall, the ladies of the court 
held their “mess” (so called), apart, and “great and 
mighty was the eating thereof!” 

The banquet ended, the dance began. The admirable 
“featliness” of the Count de la Roche, in the pavon, 
with the Lady Margaret, was rivalled only by the more 
majestic grace of Edward and the dainty steps of Anthony 
Woodville. But the lightest and happiest heart which 
beat in that revel was one in which no scheme and no 


3b0 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


ambition but those of love nursed the hope and dreamed 
the triumph. 

Stung by the coldness, even more than by the disdain 
of the Lady Bonville, and enraged to find that no taunt 
of his own, however galling, could ruffle a dignity which 
was an insult both to memory and to self-love, Hastings 
had exerted more than usual, both at the banquet and in 
the revel, those general powers of pleasing, wdiich, even 
in an age when personal qualifications ranked so high, 
had yet made him no less renowned for successes in gal- 
lantry than the beautiful and youthful king. All about 
this man witnessed the triumph of mind over the obstacles 
that beset it ; — his rise without envy, his safety amidst 
foes, the happy ease with which he moved through the 
snares and pits of everlasting stratagem and universal 
wile ! Him alone the arts of the Woodvilles could not 
supplant in Edward’s confidence and love ; to him alone ' 
dark Gloucester bent his haughty soul ; him alone, War- 
wick, who had rejected his alliance, and knew the private 
grudge the rejection bequeathed ; — him alone, among 
the “new men,” Warwick always treated with generous 
respect, as a wise patriot, and a fearless soldier ; and in 
the more frivolous scenes of courtly life, the same mind 
raised one no longer in the bloom of youth, with no 
striking advantages of person, and studiously disdainful 
of all the fopperies of the time, to an equality wdth the 
youngest, the fairest, the gaudiest courtier, in that rival- 
ship, which has pleasure for its object, and love for its 
reward. Many a heart beat quicker as the graceful 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 381 

^ courtier, with that careless wit which veiled his profound 
mournfulness of character, or with that delicate flattery 
which his very contempt for human nature had taught 
him, moved from dame to donzel ; — till at length, in the 
sight and hearing of the Lady Bonville, as she sat. 
seemingly heedless of his revenge, amidst a group ol 
matrons elder than herself, a murmur of admiration made 
him turn quickly, and his eye* following the gaze of the 
by-standers, rested upon the sweet, animated face of 
Sibyll, flushed into rich bloom at the notice it excited. 
Then as he approached the maiden, his quick glance 
darted to the woman he had first loved, told him that he 
had at last discovered the secret how to wound. An 
involuntary compression of Katherine’s proud lips, a 
hasty rise and fall of the stately neck, a restless inde- 
scribable flutter, as it were, of the whole frame, told the 
experienced woman-reader of the signs of jealousy and 
fear. And he passed at once to the young maiden’s side. 
Alas ! what wonder that Sibyll that night surrendered 
her heart to the happiest dreams ; and finding herself on 
the floors of a court — intoxicated by its perfumed air, — 
hearing on all sides the murmured eulogies which 
approved and justified the seeming preference of the 
powerful noble, — what wonder that she thought the 
humble maiden, with her dower of radiant youth and 
exquisite beauty, and the fresh and countless treasures 
of virgin love, might be no Unworthy mate of the “ new 
lord.” 


882 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

It was morning* before the revel ended ; and, when, 
dismissed by the Duchess of Bedford, Sibyll was left to 
herselt, not even amidst her happy visions did the daugh- 
ter forget her office. She stole into her father’s chamber. 
He, too, was astir and up — at work at the untiring fur- 
nace, the damps on his brow, but all Hope’s vigor at his 
heart. So while Pleasure feasts, and Youth revels, and 
Love deludes itself, and Ambition chases its shadows — 
(chased itself by Death) — so works the world-changing 
and world-despised Science, the life within life, for all 
living — and to all dead 1 


CHAPTER YIl. 

The renowned combat between Sir Anthony Woodville and tht 
Bastard of Burgundy. 

And now the day came for the memorable joust between 
the queen’s brother and the Count de la Roche. By a 
chapter solemnly convoked at St. Paul’s, the prelimina- 
ries were settled ; — upon the very timber used in decking 
the lists, King Edward expended half the yearly revenue 
derived from all the forests of his duchy of York. In 
the wide space of Smithlield, destined at a later day to 
blaze with the fires of intolerant bigotry, crowded Lon- 

* The hours of our ancestors, on great occasions, were not al- 
ways more seasonable than our own. Froissart speaks of Court 
Balls, in the reign of Richard II., kept up till day. 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

don’s holiday population ; and yet, though all the form 
and parade of chivalry were there — though, in the open 
balconies, never presided a braver king or a comelier 
queen — though never a more accomplished chevalier than 
Sir Anthony Lord of Scales, nor. a more redoubted knight 
than the brother of Charles the Bold, met lance to lance, 
— it was obvious to the elder and more observant spec- 
tators, that the true spirit of the lists was already fast 
wearing out from the influences of the age; that the 
gentleman was succeeding to the knight, that a more 
silken, and scheming race had become the heirs of the 
iron men, who, under Edward III., had realized the fabled 
Paladins of Charlemagne and Arthur. But the actors 
were less changed than the spectators, — the Well-born 
than the People. Instead of that hearty sympathy in 
the contest, that awful respect for the champions, that 
eager anxiety for the honor of the national lance, which, 
a century or more ago, would have moved the throng as 
one breast, the comments of the by-standers evinced rather 
the cynicism of ridicule, the feeling that the contest was 
unreal, and that chivalry was out of place in the practical 
temper of the times. On the great chess-board, the pawns 
were now so marshalled, that the knights’ moves were no 
longer able to scour the board and hold in check both 
castle and king. 

Gramercy ! ” said Master Stokton, who sat in high 
state as Sheriff,* “ this is a sad waste of moneys ; and 


* Fabyan. 


384 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

where, after all, is the glory in two tall fellows, walled a 
yard thick in armor, poking at each Other with poles of 
painted wood ? ” 

“ Give me a good bull-bait I ” said a sturdy butcher, in 
the crowd below — “that’s more English, I take it, than 
these fooleries.” 

Amongst the ring, the bold ’prentices of London, up 
and away betimes, had pushed their path into a foremost 
place, much to the discontent of the gentry, and with 
their flat caps, long hair, thick bludgeons, loud exclama- 
tions, and turbulent demeanor, greatly scandalized the 
formal heralds. That, too, was a sign of the times. Nor 
less did it show the growth of commerce, that, on seats 
very little below the regal balconies, and far more con- 
spicuous than the places of earls and barons, sat in state 
the mayor (that mayor a grocer I *) and aldermen of the 
city. 

A murmur, rising gradually into a general shout, 
evinced the admiration into which the spectators were 
surprised, when Anthony Woodville Lord Scales — his 
head bare — appeared at the entrance of the lists — so 
bold and so fair was his countenance, so radiant his 
armor, and so richly caparisoned his grey steed, in the 
gorgeous housings that almost swept the ground; and 
around him grouped such an attendance of knights and 
peers as seldom graced the train of any subject, with the 
Duke of Clarence at his right hand, bearing his bassinet 


* Sir John Yonge. — Fabyan. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 385 

But Ahthony’s pRgfes, supporting his banner, shared at 
least the popular admiration with their gallant lord : they 
were, according to the old custom, which probably fell 
into disuse under the Tudors, disguised in imitation of 
the heraldic beasts that typified his armorial cognizance : * 
and horrible and laidley looked they in the guise of griffins, 
with artful scales of thin steel painted green, red forked 
tongues, and griping the banner in one huge claw, while, 
much to the marvel of the by-standers, they contrived to 
walk very statedly on the other. “ Oh, the brave mon- 
sters ! ” exclaimed the butcher, “ Cogs bones, this beats 
all the rest I ’’ 

But when the trumpets of the heralds had ceased, when 
the words Laissez aller!^^ were pronounced, when the 
lances were set and the charge began, this momentary 
admiration was converted into a cry of derision, by the 
sudden restiveness of the Burgundian’s horse. This ani- 
mal, of the pure race of Flanders, of a bulk approaching 
to clumsiness, of a rich bay, where, indeed, amidst the 
barding and the housings, its color could be discerned, 
had borne the valiant Bastard through many a sanguine 
field, and in the last had received a wound which had 
greatly impaired its sight. And now, whether scared by 
the shouting, or terrified by its obscure vision, and the 
recollection of its wound when last bestrode by its lord, 
it halted midway, reared on end, and, fairly turning round, 
despite spur and bit, carried back the Bastard, swearing 


* Hence the origin of Supporlers. 


I. — 33 


z 


386 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

strange oaths, that grumbled hoarsely through his vizor, 
to the very place whence he had started. 

The uncourteous mob yelled and shouted and laughed, 
and wholly disregarding the lifted wands, and drowning 
the solemn rebukes, of the heralds, they heaped upon the 
furious Burgundian all the expressions of ridicule in which 
the wit of Cockaigne is so immemorially rich. But the 
courteous Anthony of England, seeing the strange and 
involuntary flight of his redoubted foe, incontinently 
reined in, lowered his lance, and made his horse, with- 
out turning round, back to the end of the lists in a series 
of graceful gambadas and caracols. Again the signal 
was given, and this time the gallant bay did not fail his 
rider ; — ashamed, doubtless, of its late misdemeanor, — 
arching its head till it almost touched the breast, laying 
its ears level on the neck, and with a snort of anger and 
disdain, the steed of Flanders rushed to the encounter. 
The Bastard’s lance shivered fairly against the small 
shield of the Englishman, but the Woodville’s weapon, 
more deftly aimed, struck full on the count’s bassinet, 
and at the same time the pike projecting from the grey 
charger’s chalfron pierced the nostrils of the unhappy 
bay, whom rage and shame had blinded more than ever. 
The noble animal, stung by the unexpected pain, and 
bitted sharply by the rider, whose seat was sorely shaken 
by the stroke on his helmet, reared again, stood an instant 
perfectly erect, and then fell backwards, rolling over and 
over the illustrious burden it had borne. Then the de- 
bonnaire Sir Anthony of England, casting down his lance. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 387 

drew his sword, and dexterously caused his destrier to 
curvet in a close circle round the fallen Bastard, courte- 
ously shaking at him the brandished weapon, but without 
attempt to strike. 

“Ho, marshal!” cried King Edward, “assist to his 
legs the brave count.” 

The marshal hastened to obey. “ quoth 

the Bastard, when extricated from the weight of his steed, 
“ I cannot hold by the clouds, but though my horse failed 
me, surely I will not fail my companions” — and as he 
spoke, he placed himself in so gallant and superb a pos- 
ture, that he silenced the inhospitable yell which had 
rejoiced in the foreigner’s discomfiture. Then, observing 
that the gentle Anthony had dismounted, and was lean- 
ing gracefully against his destrier, the Burgundian called 
forth — 

“ Sir Knight, thou hast conquered the steed, not th^ 
rider. We are now foot to foot. The pole-axe, or the 
sword — which ? Speak I ” 

“I pray thee, noble sieur,” quoth the Woodville, 
mildly, “ to let the strife close for this day, and when rest 
hath ” 

“Talk of rest to striplings — I demand my rights I” 

“ Heaven forefend,” said Anthony Woodville, lifting 
his hand on high, “that I, favored so highly by the fair 
dames of England, should demand repose on their behalf. 
But bear witness — ” he said (with the generosity of the 
last true chevalier of his age, and lifting his vizor, so as 
to l)e heard by the king, and even through the foremost 


388 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

ranks of the crowd) — “ bear witness, that in this encouti- 
ter, my cause hath befriended me, not mine arm. The 
Count de la Roche speaketh truly ; and his steed alone 
be blamed for his- mischance.” 

“ It is but a blind beast I ” muttered the Burgundian. 

“And,” added Anthony, bowing towards the tiers rich 
with the beauty of the court— “and the count himself 
assureth me that the blaze of yonder eyes blinded his 
goodly steed.” Having delivered himself of this gallant 
conceit, so much in accordance with the taste of the day, 
the Englishman, approaching the king’s balcony, craved 
permission to finish the encounter with the axe or brand. 

“ The former, rather, please you, my liege ; for the 
warriors of Burgundy have ever been deemed uncon- 
quered in that martial weapon.” 

Edward, whose brave blood was up and warm at the 
clash of steel, bowed his gracious assent, and two pole- 
axes were brought into the ring. 

The crowd now evinced a more earnest and respectful 
attention than they had hitherto shown, for the pole-axe, 
in such stalwart hands, was no child’s toy. “ Hum,” quoth 
Master Stockton, “there maybe some merriment now — 
not like those silly poles I Your axe lops off a limb 
mighty cleanly.” 

The knights themselves seemed aware of the greater 
gravity of the present encounter. Each looked well to 
the bracing of his vizor; — and poising their weapons 
witii method and care, they stood apart some moments. 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


38 & 


eyeing each other steadfastly, — as adroit fencers with the 
small-sword do in our schools at this day. 

At length, the Burgundian, darting forward, launched 
a mighty stroke at the Lord Scales, which, though rapidly 
parried, broke down the guard, and descended with such 
weight on the shoulder, that but for the thrice-proven 
steel of Milan, the benevolent expectation of Master 
Stokton had been happily fulfilled. Even as it was, the 
Lord Scales uttered a slight cry — which might be either 
of anger or of pain — and lifting his axe with both hands, 
levelled a blow on the Burgundian’s helmet that well-nigh 
brought him to his knee. And now, for the space of some 
ten minutes, the crowd, with charmed suspense, beheld 
the almost breathless rapidity with which stroke on stroke 
was given and parried; the axe shifted to and fro — 
wielded now with both hands — now the left, now the 
right — and the combat reeling, as it were, to and fro — 
so that one moment it raged at one extreme of the lists — > 
the next at the other ; and so well inured, from their very 
infancy, to the weight of mail were these redoubted cham- 
pions, that the very WTestlers on the village green, nay, 
the naked gladiators of old, might have envied their lithe 
agility and supple quickness. 

At last, by a most dexterous stroke, Anthony Wood 
ville forced the point of his axe into the vizor of the Bur- 
gundian, and there so firmly did it stick, that he was 
enabled to pull his antagonist to and fro at his will, while 
the Bastard, rendered as blind as his horse by the stop- 
page of the eye-hole, dealt his own blows about at ram 
33 * 


390 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

dom, and was placed completely at the mercy of the 
Englishman. And gracious as the gentle Sir Anthony 
was, he was still so smarting under many a bruise felt 
through his dinted mail, that small mercy, perchance, 
would the Bastard have found, for the gripe of the Wood- 
ville’s left hand was on his foe’s throat, and the right 
seemed about to force the point deliberately forward into 
the brain, when Edward, roused from his delight at that 
pleasing spectacle by a loud shriek from his sister Mar- 
garet, echoed by the Duchess of Bedford, who was by no 
means anxious that her son’s axe should be laid at the 
root of all her schemes, rose, and crying, “ Hold I ” with 
that loud voice which had so often thrilled a mightier 
field, cast down his warderer. 

Instantly the lists opened — the marshals advanced — 
severed the champions — and unbraced the count’s helmet. 
But the Bastard’s martial spirit, exceedingly dissatisfied 
at the unfriendly interruption, rewarded the attention of 
the marshals by an oath, worthy his relationship to Charles 
the Bold ; and hurrying straight to the king, his face 
flushed with wrath, and his eyes sparkling with fire — 

“jSToble sire and king,” he cried, “do me not this 
wrong I I am not overthrown, nor scathed, nor subdued 
— I yield not. By every knightly law, till one champion 
yields, he can call upon the other to lay on and do his 
worst.” 

Edward paused, much perplexed and surprised at find- 
ing his intercession so displeasing. He glanced first at 
the Lord Rivers, who sat a little below him, and whose 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 391 

cheek grew pale at the prospect of his son’s renewed en- 
counter with one so determined — then at the immovable 
aspect of the gentle and apathetic Elizabeth — then at the 
agitated countenance of the duchess — then at the im- 
ploring eyes of Margaret, who, with an effort, preserved 
herself from swooning ; and, finally, beckoned to him the 
Duke of Clarence, as high constable, and the Duke of 
Norfolk, as earl marshal, he said, “ Tarry a moment. Sir 
Count, till we take counsel in this grave affair.” The 
count bowed sullenly — the spectators maintained an 
anxious silence — the curtain before the king’s gallery was 
closed while the council conferred. At the end of some 
three minutes, however, the drapery was drawn aside by 
the Duke of Norfolk ; and Edward, fixing his bright blue 
eye upon the fiery Burgundian, said, gravely, Count de 
la Roche, your demand is just. According to the laws 
of the list, you may fairly claim that the encounter go on.” 

“ Oh I knightly prince, well said. My thanks. We lose 
time — squires, my bassinet I ” 

“ Yea,” renewed Edward, “ bring hither the count’s 
bassinet. By the laws, the combat may go on at thine 
asking — I retract my warderer. But, Count de la Roche, 
by those laws you appeal to, the said combat must go on 
precisely at the point at which it was broken off. Where- 
fore, brace on thy bassinet. Count de la Roche — and thou, 
Anthony Lord Scales, fix the pike of thine axe, which I 
now perceive was inserted exactly where the right eye 
giveth easy access to the brain, precisely in the same 


392 


THK LAST OF THE BARONS. 


place. So renew the contest, and the Lord have mercy 
on thy soul, Count de la Roche ! ” 

At this startling sentence, wholly unexpected, and yet 
wholly according to those laws of which Edward was so 
learned a judge, the Bastard’s visage fell. With open 
mouth and astounded eyes, he stood gazing at the king, 
who, majestically reseating himself, motioned to the 
heralds. 

“ Is that the law, sire ? ” at length faltered forth the 
Bastard. 

“ Can you dispute if? Can any knight or gentleman 
gainsay it ? ” 

“ Then,” quoth the Bastard, gruffly, and throwing his 
axe to the ground, “ by all the saints in the calendar I I 
have had enough. I came hither to dare all that beseems 
a chevalier, but to stand still while Sir Anthony Wood- 
ville deliberately pokes out my right eye, were a feat to 
show that very few brains would follow. And so, my 
Lord Scales, I give thee my right hand, and wish thee 
joy of thy triumph, and the golden collar.”* 

^‘No triumph,” replied the Woodville, modestly, “for 
thou art only, as brave knights should be^ subdued by 
the charms of the ladies, which no breast, however va- 
liant, can with impunity dispute.” 

So saying, the Lord Scales led the count to a seat of 
honor near the Lord Rivers. And the actor was con- 

* The prize was a collar of gold, enamelled with the dower of 
the souvenance. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 393 

tented, perforce, to become a spectator of the ensuing 
contests. These were carried on till late at noon between 
the Burgundians and the English, the last maintaining 
the superiority of their principal champion ; and among 
those in the meZee, to which squires were admitted, not 
the least distinguished and conspicuous was our youthful 
friend. Master Marmaduke Nevile. 


CHAPTER YIII. 

How the Bastard of Burgundy prospered more in his Policy than 
with the Pole-axe — and how King Edward holds his summer 
chase in the fair groves of Shene. 

It was some days after the celebrated encounter be- 
tween the Bastard and Lord Scales, and the court had 
removed to the Palace of Shene. The Count de la Roche’s 
favor with the Duchess of Bedford and the young princess 
had not rested upon his reputation for skill with the pole- 
axe, and it had now increased to a height that might well 
recompense the diplomatist for his discomfiture in the 
lists. 

In the mean while, the arts of Warwick’s enemies had 
been attended with signal success. The final preparations 
for the alliance, now virtually concluded with Louis’s bro- 
ther, still detained the earl at Rouen, and fresh accounts 
of the French king’s intimacy with the ambassador were 
carefully forwarded to Rivers, and transmitted to Edward 


394 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


Now, we have Edward^s own authority for stating that 
his first grudge against Warwick originated in this dis- 
pleasing intimacy ; but the English king was too clear- 
sighted to interpret such courtesies into the gloss given 
them by Rivers. He did not for a moment conceive that 
Lord Warwick was led into any absolute connection with 
Louis which could link him to the Lancastrians, for this 
was against common sense ; but Edward, with all his 
good-humor, was implacable and vindictive, and he could 
not endure the thought that Warwick should gain the 
friendship of the man he deemed his foe. Putting aside 
his causes of hatred to Louis, in the encouragement 
which that king had formerly given to the Lancastrian 
exiles, Edward’s pride as sovereign felt acutely the slight- 
ing disdain with which the French king had hitherto 
treated his royalty and his birth. The customary nick- 
name with which he was maligned in Paris was “the Son 
of the Archer,” a taunt upon the fair fame of his mother, 
whom scandal accused of no rigid fidelity to the Duke 
of York. Besides this, Edward felt somewhat of the 
jealousy natural to a king, himself so spirited and able, 
of the reputation for profound policy and state-craft, which 
Louis XI. was rapidly widening and increasing through- 
out the courts of Europe. And, what with the resent- 
ment, and what with the jealousy, there had sprung up 
in his warlike heart a secret desire to advance the claims 
of England to the throne of France, and retrieve the 
conquests won by the Fifth Henry, to be lost under the 
Sixth. Possessing these feelings and these views, Ed- 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


395 


ward necessarily saw in the alliance with Burgundy, all 
that could gratify both his hate and his ambition. The 
Count of Charolois had sworn to Louis the most deadly 
enmity, and would have every motive, whether of ven- 
geance or of interest, to associate himself heart in hand 
with the arms of England in any invasion of France ; 
and to these warlike objects Edward added, as we have 
so often had cause to remark, the more peaceful aims and 
interests of commerce. And, therefore, although he could 
not so far emancipate himself from that influence, which 
both awe and gratitude invested in the Earl of Warwick, 
as to resist his great minister’s embassy to Louis ; and 
though, despite all these reasons in favor of connection 
with Burgundy, he could not but reluctantly allow that 
Warwick urged those of a still larger and wiser policy, 
when showing that the infant dynasty of York could only 
be made secure by effectually depriving Margaret of the 
sole ally that could venture to assist her cause, yet no 
sooner had Warwick fairly departed, than he inly chafed 
at the concession he had made, and his mind was open to 
all the impressions which the earl’s enemies sought to 
stamp upon it. As the wisdom of every man, however 
able, can but run through those channels which are formed 
b) the soil of the character, so Edward, with all his 
talents, never possessed the prudence which fear of con- 
sequences inspires. Pie was so eminently fearless — so 
scornful of danger — that he absolutely forgot the argu- 
ments on which the affectionate zeal of Warwick had 
based the alliance with Louis — arguments as to the un- 


396 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


ceasing peril, whether to his person or his throne, so long 
as the unprincipled and plotting genius of the French 
king had an interest against both — and thus he became 
only alive to the representations of his passions, his 
pride, and his mercantile interests. The Duchess of Bed- 
ford, the queen, and all the family of Woodville, who had 
but one object at heart the downfall of Warwick and 
his house — knew enough of the earPs haughty nature to 
be aware that he would throw up the reins of government 
the moment he knew that Edward had discredited and 
dishonored his embassy ; and, despite the suspicions they 
sought to instil into their king’s mind, they calculated 
upon the earl’s love and near relationship to Edward ^ 
upon his utter, and seemingly irreconcilable breach with 
the house of Lancaster — to render his wrath impotent 
— and to leave him only the fallen minister, not the 
mighty rebel. 

Edward had been thus easily induced to permit the 
visit of the Count de la Roche, although he had by no 
means then resolved upon the course he should pursue. 
At all events, even if the alliance with Louis was to take, 
place, the friendship of Burgundy was worth much to 
maintain. But De la Roche, soon made aware, by the 
Duchess of Bedford, of the ground on which he stood, 
and instructed by his brother to spare no pains and to 
scruple no promise that might serve to alienate Edward 
from Louis, and win the hand and dower of Margaret, 
found it a more facile matter than his most sanguine 
hopes, had deemed, to work upon the passions and the 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 39T 

motives which inclined the king to the pretensions of the 
heir of Burgundy. And what more than all else favored 
the envoy’s mission was the very circumstance that should 
most have defeated it — viz., the recollection of the Earl 
of Warwick. For in the absence of that powerful baron, 
and master-minister, the king had seemed to breathe more 
freely. In his absence, he forgot his power. The machine 
of government, to his own surprise, seemed to go on as 
well, the Commons were as submissive, the mobs as noisy 
in their shouts, as if the earl was by. There was no lon- 
ger any one to share with Edward the joys of popularity, 
the sweets of power. Though Edward was. not Diogenes, 
he loved the popular sunshine, and no Alexander now 
stood between him and its beams. Deceived by the re- 
presentations of his courtiers, hearing nothing but abuse 
of Warwick, and sneers at his greatness, he began to 
think the hour had come when he might reign alone, and 
he entered, though tacitly, and not acknowledging it even 
to himself, into the very object of the womankind about 
him viz. the dismissal of his minister. 

The natural carelessness and luxurious indolence of 
Edward’s temper did not, however, permit him to see all 
the ingratitude of the course he was about to adopt. 
The egotism a king too often acquires, and no king so 
easily as one like Edward lY., not born to a throne, 
made him consider that he alone was entitled to the pre- 
rogatives of pride. As sovereign and as brother, might 
Me not give the hand of Margaret as he listed ? If War- 
wick was offended, pest on his disloyalty and presump- 
I. —34 


398 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


tion ! And so saying to himself, he dismissed the very 
thought of the absent earl, and glided unconsciously 
down the current of the hour. And yet, notwithstanding 
all these prepossessions and dispositions, Edward might 
no doubt have deferred, at least, the meditated breach 
with his great minister until the return of the latter, and 
-then have acted with the delicacy and precaution that 
became a king bound by ties of gratitude and blood to 
the statesman he desired to discard, but for a habit, — 
which, while history mentions, it seems to forget, in the 
consequences it ever engenders — the habit of intemper- 
ance Unquestionably, to that habit many of the impru- 
dences and levities of a king possessed of so much ability, 
are to be ascribed ; and over his cups with the wary and 
watchful De la Roche, Edward had contrived to entangle 
himself far more than in his cooler moments he would 
have been disposed to do. 

Having thus admitted our readers into those recesses 
of that cor inscrutahile — the heart of kings — we sum- 
mon them to a scene peculiar to the pastimes of the 
magnificent Edward. Amidst the shades of the vast park 
or chase which then appertained to the Palace of Shene, 
the noonday sun shone upon such a spot as Armida 
might have dressed for the subdued Rinaldo. A space 
had been cleared of trees and underwood, and made level 
as a bowling-green. Around this space the huge oak 
and the broad beech were hung with trellis-work, wreathed 
with jasmine, honeysuckle, and the white rose, trained in 
arches. Ever and anon through these arches extended 


THE LAST OF THE BAROJNS 399 

long alleys, or vistas, gradually lost in the cool depth of 
foliage ; amidst these alleys and around this space, num- 
berless arbors, quaint with all the flowers then known in 
England, were constructed. In the centre of the sward 
was a small artificial lake, long since dried up, and 
adorned then with a profusion of fountains, that seemed 
to scatter coolness around the glowing air. Pitched in 
various and appropriate sites were tents of silk and the 
white cloth of Rennes, each tent so placed as to com- 
mand one of the alleys ; and at the opening of each 
stood cavalier or dame, with the bow or cross-bow, as it 
pleased the fancy or suited best the skill, looking for the 
quarry, which horn and hound drove fast and frequent 
across the alleys. Such was the luxurious “ summer- 
chase” of the Sardanapalus of the North. Nor could 
any spectacle more thoroughly represent that poetical 
yet effeminate taste, which, borrowed from the Italians, 
made a short interval between the chivalric and the 
modern age! The exceeding beauty of the day — the 
richness of the foliage in the first suns of bright July — 
the bay of the dogs — the sound of the mellow horn — 
the fragrance of the air, heavy with noontide flowers — 
the gay tents — the rich dresses and fair faces and merry 
laughter of dame and donzell — combined to take captive 
every sense, and to reconcile ambition itself, that eternal 
traveller through the future, to the enjoyment of the 
voluptuous hour. But there were illustrious exceptions 
to the contentment of the general company. 

A courier had arrived that morning to apprize Edward 


400 THE LAST OF TtlE BARONS. 

of the unexpected debarkation of the Earl of Warwick, 
with the Archbishop of Narbonne and the Bastard of 
Bourbon — the ambassadors commissioned by Louis to 
settle the preliminaries of the marriage between Mar- 
garet and his brother. 

This unwelcome intelligence reached Edward at the 
very moment he was sallying from his palace-gates to his 
pleasant pastime. He took aside Lord Hastings, and 
communicated the news to his able favorite. — “ Put spurs 
to thy horse, Hastings, and hie thee fast to Baynard’s 
Castle. Bring back Gloucester. In these difficult matters, 
that boy’s head is better than a council.” 

“Your highness,” said Hastings, tightening his girdle 
with one hand, while with the other he shortened his 
stirrups, “shall be obeyed. I foresaw, sire, that this 
coming would occasion much that my Lords Rivers and 
Worcester have overlooked. I rejoice that you summon 
the Prince Richard, who hath wisely forborne all counte- 
nance to the Burgundian envoy. But is this all, sire ? 
Is it not well to assemble also your trustiest lords and 
most learned prelates, if not to overawe Lord Warwick’s 
anger, at least to confer on the fitting excuses to be made 
to King Louis’s ambassadors?” 

“And so lose the fairest day this summer hath bestowed 
upon us ? Tush ! — the more need for pleasaunce to-day, 
since business must come to-morrow. Away with you, 
dear Will!” 

Hastings looked grave, but he saw all further remon- 
strance would be in vain, and hopijig much from the in- 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


401 


tercession of Gloucester, put spurs to his steed, and 
vanished. Edward mused a moment ; and Elizabeth, who 
knew every expression and change of his countenance, 
rode from the circle of her ladies, and approached him 
timidly. Casting down her eyes, which she always affected 
in speaking to her lord, the queen said, softly, 

“ Something hath disturbed my liege and my life’s life.” 

Marry, yes, sweet Bessee. Last night, to pleasure 
thee and thy kin (and sooth to say, small gratitude ye 
owe me, for it also pleased myself), I promised Mar- 
garet’s hand, through De la Roche, to the heir of Bur- 
gundy.” 

0 princely heart ! ” exclaimed Elizabeth, her whole 
face lighted up with triumph — “ ever seeking to make 
happy those it cherishes. But is it that which disturbs 
thee — that which thou repentest ? ” 

No, sweetheart — no. Yet had it not been for the 
strength of the clary, I should have kept the Bastard 
longer in suspense. But what is done is done. Let not 
thy roses wither when thou hearest Warwick is in England 

nay, nay, child, look not so appalled — thine Edward 

is no infant, whom ogre and goblin scare ; and ” — glancing 
his eye proudly round as he spoke, and saw the goodly 
avalcade of his peers and knights, with his body-guard 

tall and chosen veterans — filling up the palace-yard, 

with the show of casque and pike — “and if the struggle 
is to come between Edward of England and his subject, 
never an hour more ripe than this ; — my throne assured 

the new nobility I have raised around it — London 

34* 2 a 


402 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


true, marrow and heart, true — the provinces at peace — 
the ships and the steel of Burgundy mine allies 1 Let 
the White Bear growl as he list, the Lion of March is 
lord of the forest. And now, my Bessee,” added the 
king, changing his haughty tone into a gay, careless 
laugh, “now let the lion enjoy his chase.” 

He kissed the gloved hand of his queen, gallantly bend- 
ing over his saddle-bow, and the next moment he was by 
the side of a younger, if not a fairer lady, to whom he 
was devoting the momentary worship of his inconstant 
heart. Elizabeth’s eyes shot an angry gleam as she 
beheld her faithless lord thus engaged ; but so accus- 
tomed to conceal and control the natural jealousy, that 
it never betrayed itself to the court or to her husband, 
she soon composed her countenance to its ordinary smooth 
and artificial smile, and rejoining her mother, she revealed 
what had passed. The proud and masculine spirit of the 
duchess felt only joy at the intelligence. In the antici- 
pated humiliation of Warwick she forgot all cause for 
fear — not so her husband and son, the Lords Rivers and 
Scales, to whom the news soon travelled. 

“Anthony,” whispered the father, “in this game we 
have staked our heads.” 

“But our right hands can guard them well, sir,” 
answered Anthony ; “ and so God and the ladies for our 
rights ! ” 

Yet this bold reply did not satisfy the more thoughtful 
judgment of the lord treasurer, and even the brave 
v\nthony’s arrows that day wandered wide of their quarry. 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


403 


Amidst this gay scene, then, there were anxious and 
thoughtful bosoms. Lord Rivers was silent and ab- 
stracted ! his son’s laugh was hollow and constrained ; 
the queen, from her pavilion, cast, ever and anon, down 
the green alleys more restless and prying looks than the 
hare or the deer could call forth ; her mother’s brow was 
knit and flushed — and keenly were those illustrious per- 
sons watched by one deeply interested in the coming 
events. Affecting to discharge the pleasant duty assigned 
him by the king, the Lord Montagu glided from tent to 
tent, inquiring courteously into the accommodation of 
each group, lingering, smiling, complimenting, watching, 
heeding, studying, those whom he addressed. For the 
first time since the Bastard’s visit, he had joined in the 
diversions in its honor, and yet so well had Montagu 
played his part at the court, that he did not excite 
amongst the queen’s relatives any of the hostile feelings 
entertained towards his brother. No man, except Hast- 
ings, was so “ entirely loved” by Edward ; and Montagu, 
worldly as he was, and indignant against the king, as he 
could not fail to be, so far repaid the affection, that his 
chief fear at that moment sincerely was, not for Warwick, 
but for Edward. He alone of those present was aware 
of the cause of Warwick’s hasty return, for he had 
privately despatched to him the news of the Bastard’s 
visit, its real object, and the inevitable success of the in- 
trigues afloat, unless the earl could return at once, his 
mission accomplished, and the ambassadors of France in 
his train ; and even before the courier despatched to the 


404 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


king had arrived at Shene, a private hand had conveyed 
to Montagu the information that Warwick, justly roused 
and alarmed, had left the state procession behind at 
Dover, and was hurrying, fast as relays of steeds and his 
own fiery spirit could bear him, to the presence of the 
ungrateful king. 

Meanwhile the noon had now declined, the sport 
relaxed, and the sound of the trumpet from the king’s 
pavilion proclaimed that the lazy pastime was to give 
place to the luxurious banquet. 

At this moment, Montagu approached a tent remote 
from the royal pavilions, and, as his noiseless footstep 
crushed the grass, he heard the sound of voices, in which 
there was little in unison with the worldly thoughts that 
filled his breast. 

“Nay, sweet mistress, nay,” said a young man’s voice, 
earnest with emotion — “do not misthink me — do not 
deem me bold and overweening. I have sought to 
smother my love, and to rate it, and bring pride to my 
aid, but in vain ; and, now, whether you will scorn my 
suit or not, I remember, Sibyll — O Sibyll ! I remember 
the days when we conversed together, and as a brother, 
if nothing else — nothing dearer — I pray you to pause 
well, and consider what manner of man this Lord Hast- 
ings is said to be I ” 

“Master Nevile, is this generous ? — why afflict me 
thus ? — why couple my name with so great a lord’s ? ” 

“ Because — beware — the young gallants already so 
couple it, and their prophecies are not to thine honor, 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


405 


Sibyll. Nay, do not frown on me. I know thou art 
fair and winsome, and deftly gifted, and thy father may, 
^for aught I know, be able to coin thee a queen’s dower 
out of his awsome engines. But Hastings will not wed 
thee, and his wooing, therefore, but stains thy fair repute ; 
while I ” 

“You!” said Montagu, entering suddenly — “you, 
kinsman, may look to higher fortunes than the Duchess 
of Bedford’s waiting-damsel can bring to thy honest love. 
How now, mistress, say — wilt thou take this young 
gentleman for loving fere and plighted spouse ? If so, 
he shall give thee a manor for jointure, and thou shalt 
wear velvet robe and gold chain, as a knight’s wife.” 

This unexpected interference, which was perfectly in 
character with the great lords, who frequently wooed in 
very peremptory tones for their clients and kinsmen,* 
completed the displeasure which the blunt Marmaduke 
had already called forth in Sibyll’s gentle but proud 
nature. “ Speak, maiden, ay or no ? ” continued Montagu, 
surprised and angered at the haughty silence of one whom 
he just knew by sight and name, though he had never 
before addressed her. 

“No, my lord,” answered Sibyll, keeping down her in- 
dignation at this tone, though it burned in her cheek, 
flashed in her eye, and swelled in the- heave of her breast. 

' * See, in Miss Strickland’s “ Life of Elizabeth Woodville,” the 
curious letters which the Duke of York and the Earl of Warwick 
addressed to her, then a simple maiden, in favor of their protegS, 
Sir R. Johnes. 


406 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


“ N.) ! and your kinsman might have spared this affront 
to one whom — but it matters not.” She swept from the 
tent as she said this, and passed np the alley, into that 
of the queen’s mother. 

“ Best so ; thou art too young for marriage, Marma- 
duke,” said Montagu, coldly. “We will find thee a 
richer bride ere long. There is Mary of Winstown — the 
archbishop’s ward — with two castles and seven knight’s 
fees. ” 

“But so marvellously ill-featured, my lord,” said poor 
Marmaduke, sighing. 

Montagu looked at him in surprise. “ Wives, sir,” he 
said, “are not made to look at, — unless, indeed they be 
the wives of other men. But dismiss these follies for the 
nonce. Back to thy post by the king’s pavilion ; and, 
by the way, ask Lord Fauconberg and Aymer Nevile, 
whom thou wilt pass by yonder arbor — ask them, in my 
name, to be near the pavilion while the king banquets. 
A word in thine ear — ere yon sun gilds the tops of those 
green oaks, the Earl of Warwick will be with Edward 
lY. ; and come what may, some brave hearts should be 
by to welcome him. Go I ” 

Without tarrying for an answer, Montagu turned into 
one of the tents, wherein Raoul de Fulke and the Lord 
St. John, heedless of hind and hart, conferred; and 
Marmaduke, much bewildered, and bitterly wroth with 
Sibyll, went his way. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


407 


CHAPTER IX. 

The Great Actor returns to fill the Stage. 

And now, in various groups, these summer foresters 
were at rest in their afternoon banquet ; some lying on 
the smooth sward around the lake — some in the tents — 
some again in the arbors ; here and there the forms of 
dame and cavalier might be seen, stealing apart from the 
rest, and gliding down the alleys till lost in the shade — > 
for under that reign, gallantry was universal. Before the 
king’s pavilion a band of those merry jongleurs, into 
whom the ancient and honored minstrels were fast de- 
generating, stood waiting for the signal to commence 
their sports, and listening to the laughter that came in 
frequent peals from the royal tent. Within feasted Ed- 
ward, the Count de la Roche, the Lord Rivers ; while in 
a larger and more splendid pavilion, at some little dis- 
tance, the queen, her mother, and the great dames of 
the court, held their own slighter and less noisy repast. 

“And here, then,” said Edward, as he put his lips to 
a gold goblet, wrought with gems, and passed it to 
Anthony the Bastard — “here, count, we take the first 
wassail to the loves of Charolois and Margaret ! ” 

The count drained the goblet, and the wine gave him 
new fire. 


408 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


“ And with those loves, king,” said he, “ we bind for 
ever Burgundy and England. Woe to France!” 

“Ay, woe to France!” exclaimed Edward, his face 
lighting up with that martial joy which it ever took at 
the thoughts of war — “for we will wrench her lands 
from this huckster, Louis. By Heaven ! I shall not rest 
in peace till York hath regained what Lancaster hath 
lost; and out of the parings of the realm which I will add 
to England, thy brother of Burgundy shall have eno’ to 
change his duke’s diadem for a king’s. How now, 
Rivers? Thou gloomest, father mine.” 

“ My liege,” said Rivers, wakening himself, “ I did 

but think that if the Earl of Warwick ” 

“ Ah I I had forgotten,” interrupted Edward ; “ and, 
sooth to say. Count Anthony, I think if the earl were by, 
he would not much mend our boon-fellowship ! ” 

“Yet a good subject,” said De la Roche, sneeringly, 
“usually dresses his face by that of his king.” 

“A subject! Ay, but Warwick is much such a sub- 
ject to England as William of Normandy or Duke 
Rollo was to France. Howbeit, let him come — our 
realm is at peace — we want no more his battle-axe ; and 
in our new designs on France, thy brother, bold count, 
is an ally that might compensate for a greater loss than 
a sullen minister. Let him come ! ” 

As the king spoke, there was heard gently upon the 
smooth turf the sound of the hoofs of steeds. A moment 
more, and from the outskirts of the scene of revel, where 
the king’s guards were stationed, there arose a long, loud 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


409 


shout. Nearer and nearer came the hoofs of the steeds 
— they paused. “Doubtless Kichard of Gloucester, by- 
that shout ! The soldiers love that brave boy,” said the 
king. 

Marmaduke Nevile, as a gentleman in v/aiting, drew 
aside the curtain of the pavilion ; and as he uttered a 
name that paled the cheeks of all who heard, the Earl of 
Warwick entered the royal presence. 

The earPs dress was disordered and soiled by travel ; 
the black plume on his cap was broken, and hung darkly 
over his face ; his horseman’s boots, coming half-way up 
the thigh, were sullied with the dust of the journey ; and 
yet as he entered, before the majesty of his mien, the 
grandeur of his stature, suddenly De la Roche, Rivers, 
even the gorgeous Edward himself, seemed dwarfed into 
common men! About the man — his air, his eye, his 
form, his attitude — there was that which, in the earlier 
times, made kings by the acclamation of the crowd, — an 
unmistakable sovereignty, as of one whom Nature herself 
had I shaped and stamped for power and for rule. All 
three had risen as he entered ; and to a deep silence suc- 
ceeded an exclamation from Edward, and then again all 
was still. 

The earl stood a second or two calmly gazing on the 
effect he had produced ; and turning his dark eye from 
one to the other, till it rested full upon De la Roche, 
who, after vainly striving not to quail beneath the gaze, 
finally smiled with affected disdain, and, resting his hand 
on his dagger, sunk back into his seat. 

I. —36 


410 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

“My liege,” then said Warwick, doffing his 'cap, and 
approaching the king with slow and grave respect, “ I 
crave pardon for presenting myself to your highness thus 
travel- worn and disordered, but I announce that news 
which insures my welcome. The solemn embassy of 
trust committed to me by your grace has prospered with 
God’s blessing ; and the Fils de Bourbon and the Arch- 
bishop of Narbonne are on their way to your metropolis. 
Alliance between the two great monarchies of Europe is 
concluded on terms that insure the weal of England, and 
augment the lustre of your crown. Your claims on 
Normandy and Guienne, King Louis consents to submit 
to the arbitrement of the Roman Pontiff,* and to pay to 
your treasury annual tribute ; these advantages, greater 
than your highness even empowered me to demand, thus 
obtained, the royal brother of your new ally joyfully 
awaits the hand of the Lady Margaret.” 

“ Cousin,” said Edward, who had thoroughly recovered 
himself, — motioning the earl to a seat, “you are ever 
welcome, no matter what your news ; but I marvel much 
that so deft a statesman should broach these matters of 
council in the unseasonable hour, and before the gay 
comrades, of a revel.” 

“I speak, sire,” said Warwick, calmly, though the 
veins in his forehead swelled, and his dark countenance 
was much flushed— “I speak openly of that which hath 

* The Pope, moreover, was to be engaged to decide the question 
within four years. A more brilliant treaty for England Edward’s 
ambassador could not have effected. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS, 


411 


been done nobly ; and this truth has ceased to be matter 
of council, since the meanest citizen who hath ears and 
eyes, ere this, must know for what purpose the ambassa- 
dors of King Louis arrive in England with your high- 
ness’s representative.” 

Edward, more embarrassed at this tone than he could 
have foreseen, remained silent ; but De la Roche, impa- 
tient to humble his brother’s foe, and judging it also dis- 
creet to arouse the king, said carelessly — 

“It were a pity, sir earl, that the citizens, whom you 
thus deem privy to the thoughts of kings, had not pre- 
vised the Archbishop of Narbonne, that if he desire to 
see a fairer show than even the palaces of Westminster 
and the Tower, he will hasten back to behold the banners 
of Burgundy and England waving from the spires of 
Notre Dame.” 

Ere the Bastard had concluded. Rivers, leaning back, 
whispered the king — “ For Christ’s sake, sire, select some 
fitter scene for what must follow ! Silence your guest ! ” 
But Edward, on the contrary, pleased to think that 
De la Roche was breaking the ice, and hopeful that 
some burst from Warwick would give him more excuse 
than he felt at present for a rupture, said sternly, “ Hush, 
my lord, and meddle not ! ” 

“ITnless I mistake,” said Warwick, coldly, “he who 
now accosts me is the Count de la Roche — a foreigner. ” 
“And the brother of the heir of Burgundy,” interrupted 
De la Roche — “brother to the betrothed and princely 
spouse of Margaret of England.” 


412 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


“Doth this man lie, sire?” said Warwick, who had 
seated himself a moment, and who now rose again. 

The Bastard sprang also to his feet, but Edward, 
waving him back, and reassuming the external dignity 
which rarely forsook him, replied, — “ Cousin, thy question 
lacketh courtesy to our noble guest : since thy departure, 
reasons of state, which we will impart to thee at a meeter 
season, have changed our purpose, and we will now that 
our sister Margaret shall wed with the Count of Charo- 
lois.” - 

“ And this to me, king I ” exclaimed the earl, all his 
passions at once released — “this to me ! — Nay, frown 
not, Edward — I am of the race of those who, greater than 
kings, have built thrones and toppled them I I tell thee, 
thou hast misused mine honor, and belied thine own — 
thou hast debased thyself in juggling me, delegated as 
the representative of thy royalty ! — Lord Rivers, stand 
back — there are barriers eno’ between truth and a 
king ! ” 

“ By St. George and my father’s head ! ” cried Edward, 
with a rage no less fierce than Warwick’s — “thou 
abusest, false lord, my mercy and our kindred blood. 
Another word, and thou leavest this pavilion for the 
Tower ! ” 

“King!” replied Warwick, scornfully, and folding his 
arras on his broad breast — “ there is not a hair on this 
head which thy whole house, thy guards, and thine armies 
could dare to touch. Me to the Tower ! Send me and 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


413 


when the third sun reddens the roof of prison-house and 
palace, — look round broad England, and miss a throne ! ” 
“ What ho there ! ” exclaimed Edward, stamping his 
foot ; and at that instant the curtain of the pavilion was 
hastily torn aside, and Richard of Gloucester entered, 
followed by Lord Hastings, the Duke of Clarence, and 
Anthony Woodville. 

“ Ah ! ” continued the king, “ ye come in time. George 
of Clarence, Lord High Constable of England — arrest 
yon haughty man, who dares to menace his liege and 
suzerain I ” 

Gliding between Clarence, who stood dumb and 
thunder-stricken, and the Earl of Warwick, — Prince 
Richard said, in a voice which, though even softer than 
usual, had in it more command over those who heard 
than when it rolled in thunder along the ranks of Barnet 
or of Bosworth, — “ Edward, my brother, remember Tow- 
ton, and forbear — Warwick, ray cousin, forget not thy 
king nor his dead father I” 

At these last words, the earl’s face fell ; for to that 
father he had sworn to succor and defend the sons : his 
sense recovering from his pride, showed him how much 
his intemperate anger had thrown away his advantages 
in the foul wrong he had sustained from Edward. Mean- 
while the king himself, with flashing eyes, and a crest as 
high as Warwick’s, was about, perhaps, to overthrow his 
throne by the attempt to enforce his threat, when Anthony 
Woodville, who followed Clarence, whispered to him — 
“Beware, sire! a countless crowd that seem to have 
35 * 


414 


T H K LAST or THE BARONS. 


followed the eail’s steps, have already pierced the chase, 
and can scarcely be kept from the spot, so great is their 
desire to behold him. Beware I’’ — and Richard’s quick 
ear catching these whispered words, the duke suddenly 
backed them by again drawing aside the curtain of the 
tent. Along the sward the guard of the king, summoned 
from their unseen but neighboring post within the wood, 
were drawn up as if to keep back an immense multitude 

— men, women, children, who swayed, and rustled, and 
murmured in the rear. But no sooner was the curtain 
drawp aside, and the guards themlseves caught sight of 
the royal princes, and the great earl towering amidst 
them, than supposing, in their ignorance, the scene thus 
given to them was intended for their gratification, from 
that old soldiery of Towton rose a loud and long “ Hurrah 

— Warwick and the king” — “The king and the stout 
earl.” The multitude behind caught the cry ; they rushed 
forward, mingling with the soldiery, who no longer sought 
to keep them back. 

“A Warwick I a Warwick I” they shouted. 

“ God bless the people’s friend ! ” 

Edward, startled and aghast, drew sullenly into the 
rear of the tent. 

He la Roche grew pale, but with the promptness of 
a practised statesman, he hastily advanced, and drew the 
curtain. 

“Shall varlets,” he said to Richard, in French, “gloat 
over the quarrels of their lords ? ” 

“You are right. Sir Count,” murmured Richard, 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


415 


meekly ; his purpose was effected, and leaning on his 
riding-staff, he awaited what was to ensue. 

A softer shade had fallen over the earPs face, at the 
proof of the love in which his name was held ; it almost 
seemed to his noble, though haughty and impatient na- 
ture, as if the affection of the people had reconciled him 
to the ingratitude of the king. A tear started to his 
proud eye, but he twinkled it away, and approaching 
Edward (who remained erect, and with all a sovereign’s 
wrath, though silent on his lip, lowering on his brow), he 
said, in a tone of suppressed emotion : — 

“ Sire, it is not for me to crave pardon of living man, 
but the grievous affront put upon my state and mine 
honor, hath led my words to an excess which my heart 
repents. I grieve that your grace’s highness hath chosen 
this alliance ; hereafter you may find at need what faith 
is to be placed in Burgundy.” 

“ Barest thou gainsay it ?” exclaimed Be la Roche. 

“Interrupt me not, sir I ” continued Warwick, with a 
disdainful gesture. “ My liege, I lay down mine offices, 
and I leave it to your grace to account as it lists you to 
the ambassadors of France — I shall vindicate myself to 
their king. And now, ere I depart for my hall of Mid- 
dleham, I alone here, unarmed, and unattended, save, at 
leist, by a single squire, I, Richard Nevile, say, that if 
any man, peer or knight, can be found to execute your 
grace’s threat, and arrest me, I will obey your royal plea- 
sure, and attend him to the Tower.” Haughtily he bowed 


416 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


his head as he spoke, and raising it again, gazed around 
— “I await your grace’s pleasure.” 

“Begone where thou wilt, earl. From this day, Edward 
ly. reigns alone,” said the king. Warwick turned. 

“ My Lord Scales,” said he, “ lift the curtain ; nay, sir, 
it misdemeans you not. You are still the son of the Wood- 
ville ; I still the descendant of John of Gaunt.” 

“ Not for the dead ancestor, but for the living w^ar- 
rior,” said the Lord Scales, lifting the curtain, and bow- 
ing with knightly grace as the earl passed. And scarcely 
was Warwick in the open space, than the crowd fairly 
broke through all restraint, and the clamor of their joy 
filled with its hateful thunders the royal tent. 

“ Edward,” said Richard, whisperingly, and laying his 
finger on his brother’s arm — “forgive me if I offended ; 
but had you, at such a time, resolved on violence ” 

“ I see it all — you were right. But is this to be en- 
dured for ever ? ” 

“Sire,” returned Richard, with his dark smile, “rest 
calm ; for the age is your best ally, and the age is out- 
growing the steel and hauberk. A little while, and ” 

“And what ” 

“And — ah, sire, I will answer that question when our 
brother George (mark him !) either refrains from listen- 
ing, or is married to Isabel Nevile, and hath quarrel with 

her father about the dowry. — What, ho, there! let 

the jongleurs perform.” 

“The jongleurs ! ” exclaimed the king ; “why, Richard, 
thou hast more levity than myself 1 ” 


THE LAST OE THE BARONS. 41^ 

Pardon me I Let the jongleurs perform, and bid the 
crowd stay. It is by laughing at the mountebanks that 
your grace can best lead the people to forget their War- 
wick ! 


CHAPTER X. 

How the Great Lords come to the King-maker, and with what 
proffers. 

Mastering the emotions that swelled within him. Lord 
Warwick returned, with his wonted cheerful courtesy, the 
welcome of the crowed, and the enthusiastic salutations 
of the king’s guard ; but as, at lengthy he mounted his 
steed, and attended but by the squire who had followed 
him from Dover, penetrated into the solitudes of the 
.chase, the recollection of the indignity he had suffered 
smote his proud heart so sorely, that he groaned aloud. 
His squire, fearing the fatigue he had undergone might 
have affected even that iron health, rode up at the sound 
of the groan, and Warwick’s face was hueless as he said, 
with a forced smile — “ It is nothing, Walter. But these 
heats are oppressive, and we have forgotten our morning 
draught, friend. Hark ! I hear the brawl of a rivulet, 
and a drink of fresh water were more grateful now than 
the daintiest hippocras.” So saying, he flung himself 
from his steed ; following the sound of the rivulet, he 
gained its banks, and after quenching his thirst in the 
2b 


41b 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


hollow of his hand, laid himself down upon the long grass, 
waving coolly over the margin, and fell into profound 
thought. From this reverie he was roused by a quick 
footstep, and as he lifted his gloomy gaze, he beheld 
Marmaduke Nevile by his side. 

“Well, young man,” said he sternly, “with what mes- 
sages art thou charged ? ” 

“ With none, my lord earl. I await now no commands 
but thine.” 

“Thou knowest not, poor youth, that I can serve thee 
no more. Go back to the court.” 

“ Oh, Warwick,” said Marmaduke, with simple elo- 
quence, “send me not from thy side I This day I have 
been rejected by the maid I loved. I loved her well, and 
my heart chafed sorely, and bled within ! but now, me- 
thinks, it consoles me to have been so cast off — to have 
no faith, no love, but that which is best of all, to a brave 
man, — love and faith for a hero-chief I Where thy for- 
tunes, there be my humble fate — to rise or fall with 
thee ! ” 

Warwick looked intently upon his young kinsman’s 
face, and said, as to himself, “ Why this is strange ! I 
gave no throne to this man, and he deserts me not ! My 
friend,” he added aloud, “ have they told thee already 
that I am disgraced ? ” 

“I heard the Lord Scales say to the young Lovell, that 
thou wert dismissed from all thine offices ; and I came 
hither; for I will serve no more the king who forgets the 
arm and heart to which he owes a kingdom.” 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


419 


“Man, I accept thy loyalty!” exclaimed Warwick, 
starting to his feet; “and know that thou hast done 
more to melt, and yet to nerve my spirit than — but com- 
plaints in me are idle; and praise were no reward to 
thee.” 

“ But see, my lord, if the first to join thee, I am not 
the sole one. See, brave Raoul de Fulke, the Lords of 
St. John, Bergavenny, and Fitzhugh, ay, and fifty others 
of the best blood of England, are on thy track.” 

And as he spoke, plumes and tunics were seen gleam- 
ing up the forest path, and in another moment a troop 
of knights and gentlemen, comprising the flower of such 
of the ancient nobility as yet lingered round the court, 
came up to Warwick, bareheaded. 

“ Is it possible,” cried Raoul de Fulke, “that we have 
heard aright, noble earl? And has Edward lY. suffered 
the base Woodvilles to triumph over the bulwark of his 
realm ? ” 

“ Knights and gentles ! ” said Warwick, with a bitter 
smile, “is it so uncommon a thing that men in peace 
should leave the battle-axe and brand to rust? I am but 
a useless weapon, to be suspended at rest amongst the 
trophies of Towton in my hall of Middleham.” 

“Return with us,” said the Lord of St. John, “and 
we will make Edward do thee justice, or, one and all, we 
will abandon a court where knaves and varlets have be- 
come mightier than English valor, and nobler than Nor- 
man birth.” 

“My friends,” said the earl, laying his hand on St. 


420 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


John^s shoulder, “ not even in ray just wrath will I wrong 
ray king. He is punished eno’ in the choice he hath 
made. Poor Edward and poor England ! What woes 
and wars await ye both, from the'gold, and the craft, and 
the unsparing hate of Louis XI. I No ; if I leave Ed- 
ward, he hath more need of you. Of mine own free will, 
I have resigned mine offices.” 

“ Warwick,” interrupted Raoul dc Fulke, “ this deceives 
us not ; and in disgrace to you, the ancient barons of 
England behold the first blow at their own state. We 
have wrongs we endured in silence, while thou wert the 
shield and sword of yon merchant-king. We have seen 
the ancient peers of England set aside for men of yester- 
day ; we have seen our daughters, sisters, — nay, our very 
mothers — if widowed and dowered — forced into disrepu- 
table and base wedlock, with creatures dressed in titles, 
and gilded with wealth stolen from ourselves. Merchants 
and artificers tread upon our knightly heels, and the 
avarice of trade eats up our chivalry as a rust. We 
nobles, in our greater day, have had the crown at our 
disposal, and William the Norman dared not think what 
Edward Earl of March hath been permitted with impunity 
to do. We, sir earl — we knighta and barons — would 
have a king simple in his manhood, and princely in his 
truth. Richard Earl of Warwick, thou art of royal blood 
— the descendant of old John of Gaunt. In thee w^e be- 
hold the true, the living likeness of the Third Edward, 
and the Hero-Prince of Cressy. Speak but the word, 
and we make thee king ! ” 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 421 

The descendant of the IN’orman, the representative of 
the mighty faction that no English monarch had ever 
braved in vain, looked round as he said these last words, 
and a choral murmur was heard through the whole of 
that august nobility—" We make thee king I ” 

" Richard, descendant of the Plantagenet,* speak the 
word,” repeated Raoul de Fulke. 

“I speak it riot,” interrupted Warwick; "nor shalt 
thou continue, brave Raoul de Fulke. What, my lords 
arid gentlemen,” he added, drawing himself up, and with 
his countenance animated with feelings it is scarcely pos- 
sible iri our times to sympathize with or make clear — 
" what 1 think you that Ambition limits itself to the 
narrow circlet of a crown ? Greater, and more in the 
spirit of our mighty fathers, is the condition of men like 
us, THE Barons who make and unmake kings. What I 
who of us would not rather descend from the chiefs of 
Runnymede than from the royal craven whom they con- 
trolled and chid ? By Heaven, my lords, Richard Nevile 
has too proud a soul to be a king I A king — a puppet 
of state and form ; a king — a holiday show for the crowd, 
to hiss or hurrah, as the humor seizes. A king— a beggar 
to the nation, wrangling with his parliament for gold ! A 
king I— Richard II. was a king, and Lancaster dethroned 
him. Ye would debase me to a Henry of Lancaster. 
Mort Hieu ! I thank ye. The Commons and the Lords 

* By the female side, through Joan Beaufort, or Plantagenet, 
Warwick was third in descent from John of Gaunt, as Henry VII., 
through the male line, was fourth in descent. 

L— 36 


:22 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


raised him, forsooth, — for what? To hold him as the 
creature they had made, to rate him, to chafe him, to pry 
into his very household, and quarrel with his wife’s cham- 
berlains and lavourers.* What! dear Raoul de Fulke, 
is thy friend fallen now so low, that he — Earl of Salis- 
bury and of Warwick, chief of the threefold race of Mon- 
tagu, Monthermer, and Nevile, lord of a hundred baronies, 
leader of sixty thousand followers — is not greater than 
Edward of March, to whom we will deign still, with your 
permission, to vouchsafe the name and pageant of a 
king ? ” 

This extraordinary address, strange to say, so tho- 
roughly expressed the peculiar pride of the old barons, 
that when it ceased a sound of admiration and applause 
circled through that haughty audience, and Raoul de 
Fulke, kneeling suddenly, kissed the earl’s hand : “ Oh, 
noble earl,” he said, “ ever live as one of us, to maintain 
our order, and teach kings and nations what we are.” 

“Fear it not, Raoul! fear it not — we will have our 
rights yet. Return, I beseech ye. Let me feel I have 
such friends about the king. Even at Middleham, my 
eye shall watch over our common cause ; and till seven 
feet of earth suffice him, your brother baron, Richard 
Nevile, is not a man whom kings and courts can forget, 
much less dishonor. Sirs, our honor is in our bosoms, 

* Tiaundresses. The Parliamentary Rolls, in the reign of Henry 
IV., abound in curious specimens of the interference of the Com- 
mons with the household of Henry’s wife, Queen Joan. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


423 


and there, is the only throne armies cannot shake, nor 
cozeners undermine.” 

With these words he gently waved his hand, motioned 
to his squire, who stood out of hearing with the steeds, 
to approach, and mounting, gravely rode on. Ere he had 
got many paces, he called to Marmaduke, who was on 
foot, and bade him follow him to London that night. 

I have strange tidings to tell the French envoys, and 
for England’s sake I must soothe their anger if I can, — 
then to Middleham.” 

The nobles returned slowly to the pavilions. And as 
they gained the open space, where the gaudy tents still 
shone against the setting sun, they beheld the mob of that 
day, whom Shakspeare hath painted with such contempt, 
gathering, laughing and loud, around the mountebank 
and the conjurer, who had already replaced in their 
thoughts (as Gloucester had foreseen) the hero-idol of 
their worship. 


BOOK FIFTH. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS IN HIS FATHER’S HALLS. 


CHAPTEK I. 

Rural England in the Middle Ages — Noble Visitors seek the Castla 
of Middleham. 

Autumn had succeeded to suramer — winter to autumn 
— and the spring of 1468 was green in England, when a 
gallant cavalcade were seen slowly winding the ascent of 
a long and gradual hill, towards the decline of day. Dif- 
ferent, indeed, from the aspect which that part of the 
country now presents was the landscape that lay around 
them, bathed in the smiles of the westering sun. In a 
valley to the left, a full view of which the steep road 
commanded (where now roars the din of trade through a 
thousand factories), lay a long secluded village. The 
houses, if so they might be called, were constructed en- 
tirely of wood, and that of the more perishable kind 

willow, sallow, elm, and plum-tree. Not one could boast 
a chimney ; but the smoke from the single fire in each, 
after duly darkening the atmosphere within, sent its sur- 

(424) 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS 


425 


plusage, lazily and 6tfully, through a circular aperture 
in the roof. In fact, there was long in the provinces a 
prejudice against chimneys I The smoke was considered 
good both for house and owner ; the first it was supposed 
to season, and the last to guard “ from rheums, catarrhs, 
and poses.”* Neither did one of these habitations boast 
the comfort of a glazed window, the substitute being 
lattice, or chequer-work — even in the house of the frank- 
lin, which rose statelily above the rest, encompassed with 
barns and out-sheds. And yet greatly should we err did 
we conceive that these deficiencies were an index to the 
general condition of the working-class. Far better off 
was the laborer, when employed, than now. Wages were 
enormously high, meat extremely low ; f and our mother- 
land bountifully maintained her children. 

On that greensward, before the village (now foul and 
reeking with the squalid population, whom commerce 
rears up — the victims, as the movers of the modern world) 
were assembled youth and age ; for it was a holiday even- 

* So worthy Hollinshed, Book II., c. 22. — “ Then had we none 
but rcredosses, and our heads did never ache. For ae the smoke, 
in those days, was supposed to be a sufficient hardening for the 
timber of the house, so it was reputed a far better medicine to keep 
the goodman and his familie from the quacke, or pose, wherewith 
as then Very few were oft acquainted.” 

f See Hallam’s “Middle Ages,” chap, xx.. Part II. So also 
Hollinshed, Book XL, c 12, comments on the amazement of the 
Spaniards, in Queen Mary’s time, when they saw “ what large diet 
was used in these so homelie cottages,” and reports one of the Spa- 
niards to have said, “ These English have their houses of sticks and 
dirt, but they fare commonlie so well as the king ! ” 

36 * 


42 « 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


ing, and the stern Puritan had not yet risen to sour the 
face of Mirth. Well clad in leathern jerkin, or even 
broadcloth, the young peasants vied with each other in 
quoits and wrestling ; while the merry laughter of the 
girls, in their gay-colored kirtles, and ribboned hair, rose 
oft and cheerily to the ears of the cavalcade. From a 
gentle eminence beyond the village, and half veiled by 
trees, on which the first verdure of spring was budding 
(where now, around the gin-shop, gather the fierce and 
sickly children of toil and of discontent), rose the vene- 
rable walls of a monastery, and the chime of its heavy 
bell swung far and sweet over the pastoral landscape. 
To the right of the road (where now stands the sober 
meeting-house) was one of those small shrines so frequent 
in Italy, with an image of the Yirgin gaudily painted, 
and before it each cavalier in the procession halted an 
instant to cross himself, and mutter an ave. Beyond, still 
to the right, extended vast chains of woodland, inter- 
spersed with strips of pasture, upon which numerous 
flocks were grazing, with horses, as yet unbroken to bit 
and selle, that neighed and snorted as they caught scent 
of their more civilized brethren pacing up the road. 

In front of the cavalcade rode two, evidently of supe- 
rior rank to the rest. The one small and slight, with his 
long hair flowing over his shoulders ; and the other, 
though still young, many years older ; and indicating his 
clerical profession by the absence of all love-locks, com- 
pensated by a curled and glossy beard, trimmed with the 
greatest care. But the dress of the ecclesiastic was as 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


42 ^ 


little according to our modern notions of what beseems 
the church as can well be conceived : his tunic and sur- 
coat, of a rich amber, contrasted well with the clear dark- 
ness of his complexion ; his piked shoes or beakers, as 
they were called, turned up half-way to the knee ; the 
buckles of his dress were of gold, inlaid with gems ; and 
the housings of his horse, which was of great power, were 
edged with gold fringe. By the side of his steed walked 
a tall greyhound, upon which he ever and anon glanced 
with affection. Behind these rode two gentlemen, whose 
golden spurs announced knighthood ; and then followed 
a long train of squires and pages, richly clad and accou- 
tred, bearing generally the Nevile badge of the bull ; 
though interspersed amongst the retinue might be seen 
the grim boar’s head, which Bichard of Gloucester, in 
right of his duchy, had assumed as his cognizance. 

“ Nay, sweet prince,” said the ecclesiastic, “ I pray thee 
to consider that a greyhound is far more of a gentleman 
than any other of the canine species. Mark his stately, 
yet delicate length of limb — his sleek coat — his keen eye 
— his haughty neck.” 

‘‘These are but the externals, my noble friend. Will 
the greyhound attack the lion, as our mastiff doth ? The 
true character of the gentleman is to know no fear, and 
to rush through all danger at the throat of his foe ; where- 
fore I uphold the dignity of the mastiff above all his tribe, 
though others have a daintier hide, and a statelier crest. 
Enough of such matters, archbishop — we are nearing 
Middleham.” 


428 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

“The saints be praised ! for I am hungered/^ observed 
the archbishop, piously ; “ but, sooth to say, my cook at 
the More far excelleth what we can hope to find at the 
board of my brother. He hath some faults, our Warwick ! 
Hasty and careless, he hath not thought eno’ of the bless- 
ings he might enjoy, and many a poor abbot hath daintier 
fare on his humble table.” 

“ Oh, George Neivile ! who that heard thee, when thou 
talkest of hounds and interments,* would recognize the 
Lord Chancellor of England — the most learned dignitary 
— the most subtle statesman?”- 

“And oh, Richard Plantagenet !” retorted the arch- 
bishop, dropping the. mincing and affected tone, which 
he in common with the coxcombs of that day usually 
assumed, “ who that heard thee, when thou talkest of 
humility and devotion, would recognize the sternest heart 
and the most daring ambition God ever gave to prince ? ” 
Richard started at these words, and his eye shot fire 
as it met the keen, calm gaze of the prelate. 

“Nay, your grace wrongs me,” he said, gnawing his 
lip — “ or I should not say wrongs, but flatters ; for stern- 
ness and ambition are no vices in a Nevile’s eyes.” 

“ Fairly answered, royal son,” said the archbishop, 
laughing ; “but let us be frank. — Thou hast persuaded 
me to accompany thee to Lord Warwick as a mediator : 
the provinces in the north are disturbed ; the intrigues 
of Marg’aret of Anjou are restless ; the king reaps what 


* Interments, entremets (side-dishes.) 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 429 

he has sown in the Court of France, and, as Warwick 
foretold, the emissaries and gold of Louis are ever at 
work against his throne : the great barons are moody 
and discontented ; and our liege King Edward is at last 
aware that, if the Earl of Warwick do not return to his 
councils, the first blast of a hostile trumpet may drive 
him from his throne. Well, I attend thee : my fortunes 
are woven with those of York, and my interest and my 
loyalty go hand in hand. Be equally frank with me. 
Hast thou, Lord Richard, no interest to serve in this 
mission save that of the public weal?” 

“ Thou forgettest that the Lady Isabel is dearly loved 
by Clarence, and that I would fain see removed all bar- 
rier to his nuptial bliss. But yonder rise the towers of 
Middleham. Beloved walls, which sheltered my child- 
hood I and, by holy Paul, a noble pile, which would resist 
an army, or hold one.” 

While thus conversed the prince and the archbishop, 
the Earl of Warwick, musing and alone, slowly paced the 
lofty terrace that crested the battlements of his outer for- 
tifications. 

In vain had that restless and powerful spirit sought 
content in retirement. Trained from his childhood to 
active life to move mankind to and fro at his beck — 
this single and sudden interval of repose in ihe prime of 
his existence, at the height of his fame, served but to 
swell the turbulent and dangerous passions to which all 
vent was forbidden. 

The statesman of modern days has at least food for 


430 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

intellect, in letters, when deprived of action ; but with 
all his talents, and thoroughly cultivated as his mind was 
in the camp, the council, and the state, the great earl 
cared for nothing in book-lore, except some rude ballad 
that told of Charlemagne or Rollo. The sports that had 
pleased the leisure of his earlier youth were tedious and 
flat to one snatched from so mighty a career. His hound 
lay idle at his feet, his falcon took holiday on the perch, 
his jester was banished to the page’s table. — Behold the 
repose of this great unlettered spirit ! But while his 
mind was thus debarred from its native sphere, all tended 
to pamper Lord Warwick’s infirmity of pride. The un- 
grateful Edward might forget him ; but the king seemed 
to stand alone in that oblivion. The mightiest peers, the 
most renowned knights, gathered to his hall. Middle- 
ham, not Windsor, nor Shene, nor Westminster, nor the 
Tower, seemed the Court of England. As the Last of 
the Barons paced his terrace, far as his eye could reach 
his broad domains extended, studded with villages, and 
towns, and castles, swarming with his retainers. The 
whole county seemed in mourning for his absence. The 
name of Warwick was in all men’s mouths, and not a 
group gathered in market-place or hostel, but what the 
minstrel who had some ballad in praise of the stout earl 
found a rapt and thrilling audience. 

“And is the river of my life,” muttered Warwick, 
“ shrunk into this stagnant pool ! Happy the man who 
hath never known what it is to taste of Fame — to have 
‘t is a purgatory, to want it is a hell ! ” 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 431 

Wrapped in this gloomy self-commune, he heard not 
the light step that sought his side, till a tender arm was 
thrown around him, and a face, in which sweet temper 
and pure thought had preserved to matronly beauty all 
the bloom of youth, looked up smilingly to his own. 

“My lord — my Richard,” said the countess, “why 
didst thou steal so churlishly from me ? Hath there, 
alas I come a time when thou deemest me unworthy to 
share thy thoughts, or soothe thy troubles ? ” 

“Fond one I no,” said Warwick, drawing, the form 
still light, though rounded, nearer to his bosom. “ For 
nineteen years hast thou been to me a leal and loving 
wife. Thou wert a child on our wedding-day, m’amie, 
and I but a beardless youth ; yet wise enough was I then 
to see, at the first glance of thy blue''eye, that there was 
more treasure in thy heart than in all the lordships thy 
hand bestowed.” 

“ My Richard ! ” murmured the countess, and her tears 
of grateful delight fell on the hand she kissed. 

“ Yes, let us recall those early and sweet days,” con- 
tinued Warwick, with a tenderness of voice and manner 
that strangers might have marvelled at, forgetting how 
tenderness is almost ever a part of such peculiar manli- 
ness of character, — “ yes, sit we here under this spacious 
elm, and think that our youth has come to us once more. 
For verily, m^amie, nothing in life has ever been so fair 
to me, as those days when we stood hand in hand on its 
threshold, and talked, boy-bridegroom and child-bride as 
we were, of the morrow that lay beyond.” 


432 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

“ Ah, Richard, even in those days thy ambition some- 
times vexed my woman vanity, and showed me that I 
could never be all in all to so large a heart I ” 

“ Ambition ! No, thou mistakest — Montagu is ambi- 
tious, I but proud. Montagu ever seeks to be highei 
than he is, I but assert the right to be what I am and 
have been ; and my pride, sweet wife, is a part of my love 
for thee. It is thy title. Heiress of Warwick, and not 
my father’s, that I bear; thy badge, and not the Nevile’s, 
which I have made the symbol of my power. Shame, 
indeed, on my knighthood, if the fairest dame in England 
could not justify my pride ! Ah ! belle amie, why have 
we not a son ? ” 

“ Peradventure, fair lord,” said the countess, with an 
arch, yet half- melancholy smile, “ because that pride or 
ambition, name it as thou wilt, which thou excusest so 
gallantly, would become too insatiate and limitless, if 
thou sawest a male heir to thy greatness ; and God, per- 
haps, warns thee that, spread and increase as thou wilt, 
— yea, until half our native country becometh as the 
manor of one man — all must pass from the Beauchamp 
and the Nevile into new houses ; thy glory, indeed, an 
eternal heirloom, but only to the land — thy lordships and 
thy wealth melting into the dowry of a daughter.” 

“At least, no king hath daughters so dowried,” 
answered Warwick ; “and though I disdain for myself 
the hard vassalage of a throne, yet, if the channel of our 
blood must pass into other streams — into nothing meaner 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 433 

than the veins of royalty should it merge.” He paused 
a moment, and added, with a sigh — “Would that Cla« 
rence were more worthy Isabel ! ” 

“Nay,” said the countess, gently, “he loveth her as 
she merits. He is comely, brave, gracious, and learned.” 

“ A pest upon that learning — it sicklies and womanizes 
men’s minds I” exclaimed Warwick, bluntly. “Perhaps 
it is his learning that I am to thank for George of 
Clarence’s fears, and doubts, and calculations, and scru- 
ples. His brother forbids his marriage with any English 
donzell, for Edward dares not specialize what alone he 
dreads. His letters burn with love, and his actions 
freeze with doubts. It was not thus I loved thee, sweet- 
heart. By all the saints in the calendar, had Henry Y. 
or the Lion Richard started from the tomb to forbid me 
thy hand, it would but have made me a hotter lover ! 
Howbeit Clarence shall decide here the moon wanes, and 
but for Isabel’s tears and thy entreaties, my father’s 
grandchild should not have waited thus long the coming 
of so hesitating a wooer. But lo, our darlings ! Anne 
hath thine eyes, rn'amie ; and she groweth more into my 
heart every day, since daily she more favors thee.” 

While he thus spoke, the fair sisters came lightly and 
gaily up the terrace : the arm of the statelier Isabel was 
twined round Anne’s slender waist ; and as they came 
forward in that gentle link, with their lithesome and 
bounding step, a happier blending of contrasted beauty 
was never seen. The months that had passed since the 
1.-31 2 c 


434 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

sisters were presented first to the reader had little changed 
the superb and radiant loveliness of Isabel, but had 
added surprisingly to the attractions of Anne. Her form 
was more rounded, her bloom more ripened, and though 
something of timidity and bashfulness still lingered about 
the grace of her movements and the glance of her dove- 
like eye, the more earnest thoughts of the awakening 
woman gave sweet intelligence to her countenance, and 
that divinest of all attractions — the touching and con- 
scious modesty to the shy, but tender smile — and the 
blush that so came and went, so went and came, that it 
stirred the heart with a sort of delighted pity for one so 
evidently susceptible to every emotion of pleasure and 
of pain. Life seemed too rough a thing for so soft a 
nature, and gazing on her, one sighed to guess her 
future. 

^‘And what brings ye hither, young truants ? ” said the 
earl, as Anne, leaving her sister, clung lovingly to his 
side (for it was ever her habit to cling to some one), 
while Isabel kissed her mother’s hand, and then stood 
before her parents, coloring deeply, and with downcast 
eyes. “What brings ye hither, whom I left so lately 
deep engaged in the loom, upon the helmet of Goliath, 
with my burgonot before you as a sample ? Wife, you 
are to blame — our room of state will be arrasless for the 
next three generations, if these rosy fingers are suffered 
thus to play the idlers.” 

“My father,” whispered Anne, “guests are on their 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


435 


way hither — a noble cavalcade ; you note them not from 
this part of the battlements, but from our turret it was 
fair to see how their plumes and banners shone in the 
setting sun.” 

“ Guests ! ” echoed the earl ; “ well, is that so rare an 
honor that your hearts should beat like village girls at a 
holiday ? Ah, Isabel ! look at her blushes. Is it George 
of Clarence at last? Is it?” 

‘‘We see the Duke of Gloucester’s cognizance,” whis- 
pered Anne, “and our own Nevile Bull. Perchance our 
cousin George, also, may 

Here she was interrupted by the sound of the warder’s 
horn, followed a moment after by the roar of one of the 
bombarbs on the keep. 

“At least,” said Warwick, his face lighting up, “that 
signal announces the coming of king’s blood. We must 
honor it — for it is our own. We will go forth and meet 
our guests — your hand, countess.” 

And gravely and silently, and in deep, but no longer 
gloomy thought, Warwick descended from the terrace, 
followed by the fair sisters ; and who that could have 
looked upon that princely pair, and those lovely and 
radiant children, could have foreseen, that in that hour. 
Fate, in tempting the earl once more to action was bus 
on their doom I 


436 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


CHAPTER II. 

Councils and Musings. 

The lamp shone through the lattice of Warwick’s 
chamber at the unwonted hour of midnight, and the earl 
was still in deep commune with his guests. The arch- 
bishop, whom Edward, alarmed by the state of the coun- 
try, and the disaffection ’of his barons, had reluctantly 
commissioned to mediate with Warwick, was, as we have 
before said, one of those men peculiar to the early Church. 
There was nothing more in the title of Archbishop of 
York than in that of the Bishop of Osnaburg (borne by 
the royal son of George III.*), to prevent him who 
enjoyed it from leading armies, guiding states, or in- 
dulging pleasure. But beneath the coxcombry of George 
Nevile, which was what he shared most in common with 
the courtiers of the laity, there lurked a true eccle- 
siastic’s mind. He would have made, in later times, an 
admirable Jesuit, and no doubt, in his own time, a very 
brilliant pope. His objects in his present mission were 
clear and perspicuous ; any breach between Warwick 
and the king must necessarily weaken his own position, 
and the power of his house was essential to all his views. 
The object of Gloucester in his intercession was less 


* The late Duke of York. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 437 

defined, but not less personal : in smoothing the way to 
his brother’s marriage with Isabel, he removed ail appa- 
rent obstacle to his own with Anne. And it is probable 
that Richard, who, whatever his crimes, was far from 
inaccessible to affection, might have really loved his early 
playmate, even while his ambition calculated the wealth 
of the baronies that would swell the dower of the heiress, 
and gild the barren coronet of his duchy.* 

“God’s truth I” said Warwick, as he lifted his eyes 
from the scroll in the king’s writing, “ye know well, 
princely cousin, and thou, my brother, ye know well how 
dearly I have loved King Edward ; and the mother’s 
milk overflows my heart when I read these gentle and 
tender words, which he deigns to bestow upon his ser- 
vant. My blood is hasty and over-hot, but a kind thought 
from those I love puts out much fire. Sith he thus 
beseeches me to return to his councils, I will not .be 
sullen enough to hold back ; but, oh, Prince Richard ! 
is it indeed a matter past all consideration that your 
sister, the Lady Margaret, must wed with the Duke of 
Burgundy ? ” 

“Warwick,” replied the prince, “thou mayst know 
that I never looked with favor on that alliance; that 
when Clarence bore the Bastard’s helmet, I withheld my 
countenance from the Bastard’s presence. I incurred 
Edward’s anger by refusing to attend his court while the 


* Maierus, the Flemish chronicler, quoted by Bucke (Life of 
Richard III.), mentions the early attachment of Richard to Anne. 
'J hey were much together, as children, at Middleham. 


438 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


Count de la Roche was his guest. And therefore you 
may trust me when I say now that Edward, after pro- 
mises, however rash, most solemn and binding, is dis- 
honored for ever if he break off the contract. New cir- 
cumstances, too, have arisen, to make what were dishonor 
danger also. By the death of his father, Charolois has 
succeeded to the Duke of Burgundy’s diadem. Thou 
knowest his warlike temper, and though in a contest 
popular in England we need fear no foe, yet thou knowest 
also that no subsidies could be raised for strife with our 
most profitable commercial ally. Wherefore, we earnestly 
implore thee magnanimously to forgive the past, accept 
Edward’s assurance of repentance, and be thy thought — 
as it has been ever — the weal of our common country.” 

“I may add, also,” said the archbishop, observing how 
much Warwick was touched and softened, — “that in re- 
turning to the helm of state, our gracious king permits 
me to say, that, save only in the alliance with Burgundy, 
which toucheth his plighted word, you have full liberty 
to name conditions, and to ask whatever grace or power 
a monarch can bestow.” 

“ I name none but my prince’s confidence,” said War- 
wick, generously : “in that, all else is given, and in return 
for that, I will make the greatest sacrifice that my nature 
knoweth, or can conceive — I will mortify my familiar 
demon — I will subdue my Pride. If Edward can con- 
vince me that it is for the good of England that his sister 
should wed with mine ancient and bitter foe, I will myself 
do honor to his choice. But of this hereafter. Enough, 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


431 


now, that I forget past wrongs in present favor ; and that 
for peace or war, I return to the side of that man whom 
I loved as mj son, before I served him as my king.” 

Neither Richard nor the archbishop was prepared for 
a conciliation so facile, for neither quite understood that 
peculiar magnanimity which often belongs to a vehement 
and hasty temper, and which is as eager to forgive as 
prompt to take offence — which, ever in extremes, is not 
contented with anything short of fiery aggression, or 
trustful generosity — and where it once passes over an 
offence, seeks to oblige the offender. So, when, after 
some further conversation on the state of the country, the 
earl lighted Gloucester to his chamber, the young prince 
said to himself, musingly : — 

“ Does ambition besot and blind men ? — or can War- 
wick think that Edward can view him but as one to be 
destroyed when the hour is ripe ? ” 

Catesby, who was the duke’s chamberlain, was in 
attendance as the prince unrobed. — “A noble castle 
this,” said the duke, “ and one in the midst of a warlike 
population — our own countrymen of York.” 

“ It would be no mean addition to the dowry of the 
Lady Isabel,” said Catesby, with his bland, false smile. 

“ Methinks rather that the lordships of Salisbury (and 
this is the chief) pass to the Lady Anne,” said Richard, 
musingly. “No, Edward were imprudent to suffer this 
stronghold to fall to the next heir to his throne. Marked 
you the Lady Anne — her beauty is most excellent.” 

“ Truly, your highness,” answered Catesby, unsuspi- 


440 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


ciously, “ the Lady Isabel seems to me the taller and the 
statelier.’^ 

“ When man’s merit and woman’s beauty are measured 
by the ell, Catesby, Anne will certainly be less fair than 
Isabel, and Richard a dolt compared to Clarence. Open 
the casement — my dressing-robe — good night to you ! ” 


CHAPTER III. 

The Sisters. 

The next morning, at an hour when modern beauty 
falls into its first sickly sleep, Isabel and Anne conversed 
on the same terrace, and near the same spot which had 
witnessed their father’s meditations the day before. They 
were seated on a rude bench in an -angle of the wall, 
flanked by a low, heavy bastion. And from the parapet 
their gaze might have wandered over a goodly sight, for 
on a broad space, covered with sand and sawdust, within 
the vast limits of the castle range, the numerous knights, 
and youths who sought apprenticeship in arms and 
gallantry under the earl, were engaged in those martial 
sports which, falling elsewhere into disuse, the Last of 
the Barons kinglily maintained. There, boys of fourteen, 
on their small horses, ran against each other with blunted 
lances. There, those of more advanced adolescence, 
eacn following the other in a circle, rode at the ring ; 
sometimes (at the word of command from an old knight 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS 


441 


who had fought at Agincourt, and was the preceptor in 
these valiant studies) leaping from their horses at full 
speed, and again vaulting into the saddle. A few grim 
old warriors sate by to censure or applaud. Most skilled 
among the younger, was the son of the Lord Montagu, 
among the maturer, the name of Marmaduke Nevile was 
the most often shouted. If the eye turned to the left, 
through the barbican might be seen flocks of beeves 
entering to supply the mighty larder ; and at a smaller 
postern, a dark crowd of mendicant friars, and the more 
destitute poor, waited for the daily crumbs from the rich 
man’s table. What need of a poor-law then ! the baron 
and the abbot made the parish ! But not on these 
evidences of wealth and state turned the eyes — so familiar 
to them, that they woke no vanity, and roused no pride. 

With downcast looks and a pouting lip, Isabel listened 
to ’ the silver voice of Anne. 

“ Dear sister, be just to Clarence. He cannot openly 
defy his king and brother. Believe that he would have^ 
accompanied our uncle and cousin had he not deemed 
that their mediation would be more welcome, at least to 
King Edward, without his presence.” 

“But not a letter — not a line!” 

“Yet when I think of it, Isabel, are we sure that he 
even knew of the visit of the archbishop and his brother ? ” 

“How could he fail to know?” 

“ The Duke of Gloucester, last evening, told me that 
the king had sent him southward.” 


442 


THE LAST or THE BARONS. 


“Was it about Clarence that the duke whispered to 
thee so softly by the oriel window ? ” 

“ Surely, yes I ” said Anne, simply. “ Was not Richard 
as a brother to us when we played as children on yon 
greensward ? ” 

“Never as a brother to me — never was Richard of 
Gloucester one whom I could think of without fear, and 
even loathing,” answered Isabel, quickly, 

It was at this turn in the conversation that the noise- 
less step of Richard himself neared the spot, and hearing 
his own name thus discourteously treated, he paused, 
screened- from their eyes by the bastion, in the angle. 

“Nay, nay, sister,” said Anne; “what is there in 
Richard that misbeseems his princely birth ? ” 

“ I know not, but there is no youth in his eye and in 
his heart. Even as a child he had the hard will and the 
cold craft of grey hairs. Pray St. Mary you give me not 
Gloucester for a brother ? ” 

Anne sighed and smiled — “Ah no,” she said, after a 
short pause — “When thou art Princess of Clarence, 

may I ” 

“May thou, what?” 

“Pray for thee and thine in the house of God I Ah I 
thou knowest not, sweet Isabel, how often at morn and 
eve mine eyes and heart turn to the spires of yonder con- 
vent I ” she rose as she said this, her lip quivered, and 
she moved on in the opposite direction to that in whicl 
Richard stood, still unseen, and no longer within his 
hearing. Isabel rose also, and hastening after her, threw 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


443 


her arras round Anne’s neck, and kissed away the tears 
that stood in those meek eyes. 

“ My sister — my Anne ! Ah ! trust in me, thou hast 
some secret, I know it well — I have long seen it. Is it 
possible that thou canst have placed thy heart, thy pure 
love — thou blushest I Ah! Anne I Anne! thou canst 
not have loved beneath thee.” 

“Nay,” said Anne, with a spark of her ancestral fire 
lighting her meek eyes through its tears, “ not beneath 
me, but above. What do I say ! Isabel, ask me no 
more. Enough that it is a folly — a dream — and that I 
could smile with pity at myself, to think from what light 
causes love and grief can spring.” 

“Above thee!” repeated Isabel, in amaze “and who, 
in England, is above the daughter of Earl Warwick ? 
Not Richard of Gloucester? if so, pardon my foolish 
tongue.” 

“No, not Richard — though I feel kindly towards him, 
and his sweet voice soothes me when I listen — not 
Richard. Ask no more.” 

“Oh, Anne — speak — speak! — we are not both so 
wretched. Thou lovest not Clarence? It is — it must 
be!” 

“Canst thou think me so false and treacherous — a 
heart pledged to thee ? Clarence ! Oh no I ” 

“ But who then — who then ? ” said Isabel, still sus- 
piciously ; “nay, if thou wilt not speak, blame thyself if 
I must still wrong thee.” 

Thus appealed to, and wounded to the quick by 


444 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


Isabel’s tone and eye, Anne at last, with a strong effort, 
suppressed her tears, and, taking her sister’s hand, said 
in a voice of touching solemnity — “Promise, then, that 
the secret shall be ever holy ; and, since I know that it 
will move thine anger — perhaps thy scorn — strive to 
forget what I will confess to thee.” 

Isabel for answer pressed her lips on the hand she 
held ; and the sisters, turning under the shadow of a 
long row of venerable oaks, placed themselves on a little 
mound, fragrant with the violets of spring. A different 
part of the landscape beyond was now brought iu view ; 
— calmly slept in the valley the roofs of the subject town 
of Middlehain — calmly flowed through the pastures the 
noiseless waves of Ure. Leaning on Isabel’s bosom, 
Anne thus spake ; “ Call to mind, sweet sister, that short 
breathing-time in the horrors of the Civil War, when a 
brief peace was made between our father and Queen 
Margaret. We were left in the palace — mere children 
that we were — to play with the young prince, and the 
children in Margaret’s train.” 

“I remember.” 

“ And I was unwell, and timid, and kept aloof from 
the sports with a girl of my own years, whom I think — 
see how faithful my memory I — they called Sibyll ; and 
Prince Edward, Henry’s son, stealing from the rest, 
sought me out ; and we sate together, or walked together 
alone, apart from all, that day and the few days we were 
his mother’s guests. Oh ! if you could have seen him 
and heard him then — so beautiful, so gentle, so wise be- 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


445 


yond his years, and yet so sweetly sad ; and when we 
parted, he bade me ever love him, and placed his ring on 
my finger, and wept, — as we kissed each other, as children 
will.’’ 

“Children! — ye were infants!” exclaimed Isabel, 
whose wonder seemed increased by this simple tale. 

“ Infant though I was, I felt as if my heart would 
break when I left him ; and then the wars ensued ; and 
do you not remember how ill I was, and like to die, when 
our house triumphed, and the prince and heir of Lancaster 
was driven into friendless exile ? From that hour ‘my 
fate was fixed. Smile if you please at such infant folly, 
but children often feel more deeply than later years can 
weet of.” 

“ My sister, this is indeed a wilful invention of sorrow 
for thine own scourge. Why, ere this, believe me, the 
boy-prince hath forgotten thy very name.” 

“Not so, Isabel,” said Anne, coloring, and quickly; 
“ and perchance, did all rest here, I might have outgrown 
my weakness. But last year, when we were at Rouen 
with my father ” 

“ Well ? ” 

“One evening on entering my chamber, I found a 
packet — how left I know not, but the French king and 
his suite, thou rememberest, made our house almost their 
jjQjne — and in this packet was a picture, and on its back 
these words, * Forget not the exile, who remembers 
thee/^’^ 

“ And that picture was Prince Edward’s ? ” 

I. — 38 


446 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

Anue blushed, and her bosom heaved beneath the 
slender and high-laced gorget. After a pause, looking 
round her, she drew forth a small miniature, which lay 
on the heart that beat thus sadly, and placed it in her 
sister’s hands. 

“ You see I deceive you not, Isabel. And is not this 
a fair excuse for ” 

She stopped short, her modest nature shrinking from 
comment upon the mere beanty that might have won the 
heart. 

And fair indeed was the face upon which Isabel gazed 
admiringly, in spite of the stiff and rude art of the lim- 
ner ; full of the fire and energy which characterized the 
countenance of the mother, but with a tinge of the same 
profound and inexpressible melancholy that gave its 
charm to the pensive features of Henry VI. — a face, in- 
deed, to fascinate a young eye, even if not associated with 
such remembrances of romance and pity. 

Without saying a word, Isabel gave back the picture, 
but she pressed the hand that took it, and Anne was con- 
tented to interpret the silence into sympathy. 

“And now you know why I have so often incurred 
your anger — by compassion for the adherents of Lancas- 
ter ; and for this, also, Richard of Gloucester hath been 
endeared to me; — for fierce and stern as he may b' 
called, he hath ever been gentle in his mediation for that 
unhappy House.” 

“ Because it is his policy to be well with all parties. 
My poor Anne, I cannot bid you hope ; and yet, should 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 447 

I ever wed with Clarence, it may be possible — that— • 
that — but you in turn will chide me for ambition.” 

“ How?” 

“ Clarence is heir to the throne of England, for King 
Edward has no male children ; and the hour may arrive 
when the son of Henry of Windsor may return to his 
native land, not as sovereign, but as Duke of Lancaster, 
and thy hand may reconcile him to the loss of a crown.” 

“ Would love reconcile thee to such a loss, proud Isa- 
bel ?” said Anne, shaking her head and smiling mourn- 
fully. 

“ Ko,” answered Isabel, emphatically. 

“And are men less haught than we ? ” said Anne. “Ah ! 
I know not if I could love him so well could he resign 
his rights, or even could he regain them. It is his posi- 
tion that gives him a holiness in my eyes. And this love, 
that must be hopeless, is half pity and half respect.” 

At this moment a loud shout arose from the youths in 
the yard, or sporting-ground, below, and the sisters, 
startled, and looking up, saw that the sound was occa- 
sioned by the sight of the young Duke of Gloucester, who 
was standing on the parapet near the bench the demoiselles 
had quitted, and who acknowledged the greeting by a 
wave of his plumed cap and a lowly bend of his head ; 
at the same time the figures of Warwick and the arch- 
bishop, seemingly in earnest conversation, appeared at 
the end of the terrace. The sisters rose hastily, and would 
have stolen away, but the archbishop caught a glimpse 
of their robes, and called aloud to them. The reverent 


448 


THE li A S T OF THE BARONS. 


obedience, at that day, of youth to relations, left the sisters 
no option but to advance towards their uncle, which they 
did with demure reluctance. 

Fair brother,” said the archbishop, “ I would that 
Gloucester were to have my stately niece instead of the 
gaudy Clarence.” 

“ Wherefore ?” 

“ Because he can protect those he loves, and Clarence 
will ever need a protector.” 

“I like George not the less for that,” said Warwick, 
“for I would not have ray son-in-law’ my master.” 

“ Master ! ” echoed the archbishop, laughing ; “ the 
Soldan of Babylon himself, were he your son-in-law^, would 
find Lord Warwick a tolerably stubborn servant !” 

“And yet,” said Warwick, also laughing, but with a 
franker tone, “ beshrew me, but much as I approve young 
Gloucester, and deem him the hope of the house of York, 
I never feel sure, when we are of the same mind, whether 
I agree with him, or whether he leadeth me. Ah, George I 
Isabel should have wedded the king, and then Edward 
and I w^ould have had a sweet mediator in all our quar- 
rels. But not so hath it been decreed.” 

There was a pause. 

“ Note how Gloucester steals to the side of Anne. 
Thou mayest have him for a son-in-law, though no rival 
to Clarence. Montagu hath hinted that the duke so 
aspires.” 

“ He has his father’s face— well,” said the earl, softly. 
“ But yet,” he added, in an altered and reflective tone, 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 44'J 

“ the boy is to me a riddle. That he will be bold in battle 
and wise in council I foresee ; but would he had more of 
a young man’s honest follies ! There is a medium between 
Edward’s wantonness and Richard’s sanctimony ; and he 
who in the heyday of youth’s blood scowls alike upon 
sparkling wine and smiling woman, may hide in his heart 
darker and more sinful fancies. But fie on me ! I will 
not wrongfully mistrust his father’s son. Thou spokest 
of Montagu ; he seems to have been mighty cold to his 
brother’s wrongs — ever at the court — ever sleek with 
Yillein and Woodville.” 

"‘But the better to watch thy interests ; — I so coun- 
selled him.” 

“A priest’s counsel ! Hate frankly or love freely is a 
knight’s and soldier’s motto. A murrain on all double- 
dealing I ” 

The archbishop shrugged his shoulders, and applied to 
his nostril a small pouncet-box of dainty essences. 

Come hither, my haughty Isabel,” said the prelate, 
as the demoiselles now drew near. He placed his niece’s 
arm within his own, and took her aside to talk of Cla- 
rence ; Richard remained with Anne, and the young 
cousins were joined by Warwick. The earl noted in 
silence the soft address of the eloquent prince, and his 
evident desire to please Anne, And strange as it may 
seem, although he hitherto regarded Richard with admi- 
ration and affection, and although his pride for both 
daughters coveted alliances not less than royal, yet, in 
contemplating Gloucester for the first time as a probable 
38 * 2 I) 


i50 


IHE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


suitor to his daughter (and his favorite daughter), the 
anxiety of a father sharpened his penetration, and placed 
the character of Richard before him in a different point 
from that in which he had hitherto looked only on the 
fearless heart and accomplished wit of his royal godson. 


CHAPTER lY. 

The Destrier. 

It was three days afterwards that the earl, as, accord- 
ing to custom, Anne knelt to him for his morning bless- 
ing in the oratory, where the Christian baron at matins 
and vespers offered up his simple worship, drew her forth 
into the air, and said abruptly — 

“Wouldst thou be happy if Richard of Gloucester 
were thy betrothed ? ” 

Anne started, and with more vivacity than usually be- 
longed to her, exclaimed, “ Oh no, my father ! ” 

“This is no maiden’s silly coyness, Anne ? It is a plain 
yea or nay that I ask from thee ! ” 

“Nay, then,” answered Anne, encouraged by her fa- 
ther’s tone — “nay, if it so please you.” 

“ It doth please me,” said the earl, shortly ; and after 
a pause, he added, “Yes, I am well pleased. Richard 
gives promise of an illustrious manhood ; but, Anne, thou 
growest so like thy mother, that whenever my pride seeks 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


451 


to see thee great, my heart steps in, and only prays that 
it may see thee happy ! — so much so, that I would not 
have given thee to Clarence, whom it likes me well to 
view as Isabel’s betrothed ; for, to her, greatness and 
bliss are one ; and she is of firm nature, and can rule in 
her own house; but thou, — where out of romaunt can I 
find a lord loving enough for thee, soft child ? ” 

Inexpressibly affected, Anne threw herself on her 
father’s breast and wept. He caressed and soothed her 
fondly ; and, before her emotion was well over, Glou- 
cester and Isabel joined them. 

“ My fair cousin,” said the duke, “hath promised to 
show me thy renowned steed, Saladin ; and since, on 
quitting thy halls, I go to my apprenticeship in war on 
the turbulent Scottish frontier, I would fain ask thee for 
a destrier of the same race as that which bears the thun- 
derbolt of Warwick’s wrath through the storm of battle.’* 

“A steed of the race of Saladin,” answered the earl, 
leading the way to the destrier’s stall, apart from all 
other horses, and rather a chamber of the castle than a 
stable, “ were indeed a boon worthy a soldier’s gift and 
a prince’s asking. But, alas I Saladin, like myself, is 
sonless — the last of a long line.” 

“ His father, methinks, fell for us on the field of Towton. 
Was it not so ? I have heard Edward say, that when 
the archers gave way, and the victory more than wavered, 
thou, dismounting, didst slay thy steed with thine own 
hand, and kissing the cross of thy sword, swore, on that 


452 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


spot, to stem the rush of the foe, and win Edward’s crown 
or Warwick’s grave.”* 

“ It was so ; and the shout of my merry men, when 
they saw me amongst their ranks on foot — all flight 
forbid — was Malech’s death-dirge I It is a wondrous 
race that of Malech and his son Saladin [continued the 
earl, smiling]. When my ancestor, Aymer de Nevile, 
led his troops to the Holy Land, under Coeur de Lion, it 
was his fate to capture a lady beloved by the mighty 
Saladin. Need I say that Aymer, under a flag of truce, 
escorted her ransomless, her veil never raised from her 
face, to the tent of the Saracen king. Saladin, too 
gracious for an infidel, made him tarry awhile, an honored 
guest ; and Aymer’s chivalry became sorely tried, for the 
lady he had delivered loved and tempted him ; but the 
good knight prayed and fasted, and defied Satan and all 
his works. The lady (so runs the legend) grew wroth at 
the pious crusader’s disdainful coldness ; and when Aymer 
returned to his comrades, she sent, amidst the gifts of the 
soldan, two coal-black steeds, male and mare, over which 
some foul and weird spells had been duly muttered. 
Their beauty, speed, art, and fierceness, were a marvel. 
And Aymer, unsuspecting, prized the boon, and selected 
the male destrier for his war-horse. Great were the 

* “Every Palm Sund.ay, the day on which the Battle of Towton 
was fought, a rough figure, called the Red Horse, on the side of a 
hill in Warwickshire, is scoured out. This is suggested to be done 
in commemoration of the horse which the Earl of Warwick slew 
on that day. determined to vanquish or die,” — Roberts’s “York 
and Lancaster,” vol. i. p. 429. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 453 

feats, in many a field, which my forefather wrought, be- 
striding his black charger. But one fatal day, on which 
the sudden war-trump made him forget his morning ave, 
the beast had power over the Christian, and bore him, 
against bit and spur, into the thickest of the foe. He 
did all a knight can do against many (pardon his de- 
scendant’s vaunting, — so runs the tale) — and the Chris- 
tians for a while beheld him solitary in the mUee, mowing 
down moon and turban. Then the crowd closed, and the 
good knight was lost to sight. ‘ To the rescue ! * cried 
bold King Richard, and on rushed the crusaders to 
Aymer’s help ; when lo ! and suddenly the ranks severed, 
and the black steed emerged I Aymer still on the selle, 
but motionless, and his helm battered and plumeless — 
his brand broken — his arm drooping. On came man and 
horse, on — charging on, not against Infidel, but Christian. 
On dashed the steed, I say, wdth fire bursting from eyes 
and nostrils, and the pike of his chafFron bent lance-like 
against the crusaders’ van. The foul fiend seemed in 
the destrier’s rage and puissance. He bore right against 
Richard’s standard-bearer, and down went the lion and 
the cross. He charged the king himself ; and Richard, 
unwilling to harm his own dear soldier Aymer, halted 
wondering, till the pike of the destrier pierced his own 
charger through the barding, and the king lay rolling in 
the dust. A panic seized the cross-men— they fled — the 
Saracens pursued — and still with the Saracens came the 
black steed and the powerless rider. At last, when the 
crusaders reached the camp, and the flight ceased, there 


454 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

halted, also, Aymer. Not a man dared near him. He 
spoke not — none spoke to him — till a holy priest and 
palmer approached and sprinkled the good knight and 
the black barb with holy water, and exorcised both ; the 
spell broke, and Aymer dropped to the earth. They 
unbraced his helm — he was cold and stark. The fierce 
steed had but borne a dead man.’^ 

“ Holy Paul I ’’ cried Gloucester, with seeming sanc- 
timony, though a covert sneer played round the firm 
beauty of his pale lips — “a notable tale, and one that 
proveth much of Sacred Truth, now lightly heeded. But, 
verily, lord earl, I should have little loved a steed with 
such a pedigree.” 

“ Hear the rest,” said Isabel — “ King Richard ordered 
the destrier to be slain forthwith ; but the holy palmer 
who had exorcised it, forbade the sacrifice. ‘ Mighty 
shall be the service,’ said the reverend man, ‘ which the 
posterity of this steed shall render to thy royal race, and 
great glory shall they give to the sons of Nevile. Let 
the war-horse, now duly exorcised from infidel spells, live 
long to bear a Christian warrior I ’ ” 

“And so,” quoth the earl, taking up the tale — “so 
mare and horse were brought by Aymer’s squires to his 
English hall ; and Aymer’s son, Sir Reginald, bore the 
cross, and bestrode the fatal steed, without fear and with- 
out scathe. From that hour the house of Nevile rose 
amain, in fame and in puissance ; and the legend further 
saith, that the same palmer encountered Sir Reginald at 
Joppa, bade him treasure that race of war-steeds as his 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


455 


dearest heritage, for with that race his own should flourish 
and depart ; and the sole one of the Infidel's spells which 
could not be broken, was that which united the gift — 
generation after generation, for weal or for woe, for 
honor or for doom — to the fate of Aymer and his house. 
‘And,’ added the palmer, ‘as with woman’s love and 
woman’s craft was woven the indissoluble charm, so shall 
woman, whether in craft or in love, ever shape the for- 
tunes of thee and thine.’ ” 

“As yet,” said the prince, “the prophecy is fulfilled in 
a golden sense, for nearly all thy wide baronies, I trow, 
have come to thee through the female side. A woman’s 
hand brought to the Nevile this castle and its lands.* 
From a woman came the heritage of Monthermer and 
Montagu, and Salisbury’s famous earldom; — and the 
dower of thy peerless countess was the broad domains 
of Beauchamp.” 

“And a woman’s craft, young prince, wrought my 
king’s displeasure ! But enough of these dissour’s tales : 
behold the son of poor Malech, whom, forgetting all such 
legends, I slew at Towton. Hoi Saladin — greet thy 
master I ” 

They stood now in the black steed’s stall — an ample 
and high-vaulted space, for halter never insulted the 

* Middlehara Castle was built by Robert Fitz Ranulph, gi-andson 
of Ribald, younger brother of the Earl of Bretagne and Richmond, 
nephew to the Conqueror. The founder’s line failed in male heirs, 
and the heiress married Robert Nevile, son of Lord Raby. War- 
wick’s father held the earldom of Salisbury in right of his wife, 
the heiress of Thomas de Montacute. 


456 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

fierce destrier\s mighty neck, which the God of Battles 
had clothed in thunder. A marble cistern contained his 
limpid drink, and in a gilded manger the finest wheaten 
bread was mingled with the oats of Flanders. On enter- 
ing, they found young George, Montagu’s son, with two 
or three boys, playing familiarly with the noble animal, 
who had all the affectionate docility inherited from an 
Arab origin. But at the sound of Warwick’s voice, its 
ears rose, its mane dressed itself, and with a short neigh 
it came to his feet, and kneeling down, in slow and 
stately grace, licked its master’s hand. So perfect and 
so matchless a steed never had knight bestrode I Its 
hide without one white hair, and glossy as the sheenest 
satin ; a lady’s tresses were scarcely finer than the hair 
of its noble mane ; the exceeding smallness of its head, 
its broad frontal, the remarkable and almost human in- 
telligence of its eye, seemed actually to elevate its con- 
formation above that of its species. Though the race 
had increased, generation after generation, in size and 
strength. Prince Richard still marvelled (when, obedient 
to a sign from Warwick, the destrier rose, and leaned its 
head, with a sort of melancholy and quiet tenderness, 
upon the earl’s shoulder) that a horse, less in height and 
bulk than the ordinary battle-steed, could bear the vast 
weight of the giant earl in his ponderous mail. But his 
surprise ceased when the earl pointed out to him the 
immense strength of the steed’s ample loins, the sinewy 
cleanness, the iron muscle, of the stag-like legs, the bull- 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 451 

like breadth of chest, and the swelling power of the 
shining neck. 

“And after all,” added the earl, “both in man and 
beast, the spirit and the race, not the stature and the 
bulk, bring the prize. Mort Dieu, Richard I it often 
shames me of mine own thews and broad breast — I had 
been more vain of laurels had I been shorter by the 
head I ” 

“ Neverthele.ss,” said young George of Montagu, with 
a page’s pertness, “ I had rather have thine inches than 
Prince Richard’s, and thy broad breast than his grace’s 
short neck.” 

The Duke of Gloucester turned as if a snake had stung 
•him. He gave but one glance to the speaker, but that 
glance lived for ever in the boy’s remembrance, and the 
young Montagu turned pale and trembled, even before 
he heard the earl’s stern rebuke. 

“ Young magpies chatter, boy — young eagles in silence 
measure the space between the eyrie and the sun I ” 

The boy hung his head, and would have slunk off, but 
Richard detained him with a gentle hand — “ My fair 
young cousin,” said he, “thy words gall no sore, and if 
ever thou and I charge side by side into the foeman’s 
ranks, thou shalt comprehend what thy uncle designed to 
say — how, in the hour of strait and need, we measure 
men’s stature not by the body but the soul ! ” * 

“A noble answer,” whispered Anne, with something 
like sisterly admiration. 

“ Too noble,” said the more ambitious Isabel, in the 

L— 39 


458 


THE LAST OF THE BAKUNS. 


same voice, “for Clarence’s future wife not to fear 
Clarence’s dauntless brother.” 

“And so,” said the prince, quitting the stall with War- 
wick, while the girls still lingered behind, “ so Saladin 
hath no son I Wherefore ? Can you mate him with no 
bride ? ” 

“ Faith,” antwered the earl, “ the females of his race 
sleep in yonder dell, their burial-place, and the proud 
beast disdains all meaner loves. Nay, were it not so, to 
continue the breed, if adulterated, were but to mar it.’^ 

“You care little for the legend, meseems.” 

“PardieuI at times, yes, over-much ; but in sober 
moments, I think that the brave man who does his duty 
lacks no wizard prophecy to fulfil his doom ; and whether * 
in prayer or in death, in fortune or defeat, his soul goes 
straight to God I ” 

“ITmph,” said Richard, musingly; and there was a 
pause. 

“ Warwick,” resumed the prince, “doubtless even on 
your return to London, the queen’s enmity and her 
mother’s will not cease. Clarence loves Isabel, but 
Clarence knows not how to persuade the king and rule 
the king’s womankind. Thou knowest how I have stood 
aloof from all the factions of the court. Unhappily I 
go to the borders, and can but slightly serve thee. 
B^it ” (he stopped short, and sighed heavily). 

“Speak on, prince.” 

“In a word, then, if I were thy son, Anne’s husband 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


459 


— I see — I see — I see — ” (thrice repeated the prince, 
with a vague dreaminess in his eye, and stretching forth 
his hand) — “a future that might defy all foes, opening 
to me and thee ! ” 

Warwick hesitated in some embarrassment. 

“ My gracious and princely cousin,’’ he said at length, 
*‘this proffer is indeed sweet incense to a father’s pride. 
But pardon me, as yet, noble Richard, thou art so young 
that the king and the world would blame me did I suffer 
my ambition to listen to such temptation. Enough, at 
present, if all disputes’ between our house and the king 
can be smoothed and laid at rest, without provoking new 
ones. Nay, pardon me, prince, let this matter cease — 
at least, till thy return from the borders.” 

“ May I take with me hope ? ” 

“Nay,” said Warwick, “thou knowest that I am a 
plain man ; to bid thee hope, were to plight ray word. 
And,” he added, seriously, “there be reasons grave, and 
well to be considered, why both the daughters of a sub- 
ject should not wed with their king’s brothers. Let 
this cease now, I pray thee, sweet lord.” 

Here the demoiselles joined their father, and the con- 
ference was over ; but when Richard, an hour after, stood 
musing alone on the battlements, he muttered to himself 
. — “ Thou art a fool, stout earl, not to have welcomed 
the union between thy power and my wit. Thou goest 
to a court where, without wit, power is nought. Who 
may foresee the future ? Marry, that was a wise ancient 


460 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


fable, that he who seized and bound Proteus, could ex- 
tract from the changeful god the prophecy of the days to 
come. Yea ! the man who can seize Fate, can hear its 
voice predict to him. And by my own heart and brain, 
which never yet relinquished what affection yearned for, 
or thought aspired to, I read, as in a book, Anne, that 
thou shalt be mine ; and that where wave on yon battle- 
ments the ensigns of Beauchamp, Monthermer, and 
Nevile, the Boar of Gloucester shall liege it over thetr 
broad baronies and hardy vassals.” 


BOOK SIXTH. 


WHEREIN ARE OPENED SOME GLIMPSES OF THE FATE, BE- 
LOW, THAT ATTENDS THOSE WHO ARE BETTER THAN 
OTHERS, AND THOSE WHO DESIRE TO MAKE OTHERS 
BETTER. LOVE, DEMAGOGUY, AND SCIENCE ALL EQUAL- 
LY OFFSPRING OF THE SAME PROLIFIC DELUSION VIZ., 

THAT MEAN SOULS (tHE EARTH'S MAJORITY) ARE 
WORTH THE HOPE AND THE AGONY OP NOBLE SOULS, 
THE EVERLASTINGLY SUFFERING AND ASPIRING FEW. 


CHAPTER I. 

New Dissensions. 

We must pass over some months. Warwick and his 
family had returned to London, and the meeting between 
Edward and the earl had been cordial and affectionate. 
Warwick was reinstated in the offices which gave him 
apparently the supreme rule in England. The Princess 
Margaret had left England, as the bride of Charles the 
Bold ; and the earl had attended the procession, in honor 
of her nuptials. The king, agreeably with the martial 
objects he had had long at heart, had then declared war 
on Louis XI., and parliament was addressed, and troops 
39 * 


i62 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

were raised for that impolitic purpose.* To this war, 
however, Warwick was inflexibly opposed. He pointed 
out the madness of withdrawing from England all her 
best affected chivalry, at a time when the adherents of 
Lancaster, still powerful, would require no happier occa- 
sion to raise the Red Rose banner. He showed how 
hollow was the hope of steady aid from the hot, but 
reckless and unprincipled Duke of Burgundy, and how 
difierent now was the condition of France under a king 
of consummate sagacity, and with an overflowing treasury, 
to its distracted state in the former conquests of the 
English. This opposition to the king’s will gave every 
opportunity for Warwick’s enemies to renew their old 
accusation of secret and treasonable amity with Louis. 
Although the proud and hasty earl had not only forgiven 
the affront put upon him by Edward, but had sought to 
make amends for his own intemperate resentment, by 
public attendance on the ceremonials that accompanied 
the betrothal of the princess, it was impossible for Ed- 
ward ever again to love the minister who had defied his 
power, and menaced his crown. His humor and his sus- 
picions broke forth despite the restraint that policy dic- 
tated to him ; and in the disputes upon the invasion of 
France, a second and more deadly breach between Ed- 
ward and his minister must have yawned, had not events 
suddenly and unexpectedly proved the wisdom of War- 
wick’s distrust of Burgundy. Louis XL bought off the 

* “ Parlinmentnry Roll?.” 023. The fact in the text has been 
neglected by most historians. 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 468 

Duke of Bretagne, patched up a peace with Charles the 
Bold, and thus frustrated all the schemes and broke all 
the alliances of Edward at the very moment his military 
preparations were ripe.* 

Still the angry feelings that the dispute had occasioned 
between Edward and the earl were not removed with the 
cause ; and, under pretence of guarding against hostili- 
ties from Louis, the king requested Warwick to depart 
to his government of Calais, the most important and 
honorable post, it is true, which a subject could then 
hold ; but Warwick considered the request as a pretext 
for his removal from the court. A yet more irritating 
and insulting cause of offence was found in Edward’s 
withholding his consent to Clarence’s often-urged de- 
mand for permission to wed with the Lady Isabel. It is 
true that this refusal was accompanied with the most 
courteous protestations of respect for the earl, and placed 
only upon the general ground of state policy. 

“My dear George,” Edward would say, “the heiress 
of Lord Warwick is certainly no mal-alliance for a king’s 
brother; but the safety of the throne imperatively de- 
mands, that my brothers should strengthen my rule, by 
connections with foreign potentates. I, it is true, married 
a subject, and see all the troubles that have sprung from 
my boyish passion! No, no! Go to Bretagne. The 
duke hath a fair daughter, and we will make up for any 
scantiness in the dower. Weary me no more, George, 
Fiat voluntas mea!^^ 


* W. Wyr, 618. 


464 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

But tbe motives assigned were not those which influ- 
enced the king’s refusal. Reasonably enough, he dreaded 
that the next male heir to his crown should wed the 
daughter of the subject who had given that crown, and 
might at any time take it away. He knew Clarence to 
be giddy, unprincipled, and vain. Edward’s faith in 
Warwick was shaken by the continual and artful repre- 
sentations of the queen and her family. He felt that the 
alliance between Clarence and the earl would be the 
union of two interests, almost irresistible, if once arrayed 
against his own. 

But Warwick, who penetrated into the true reasons 
for Edward’s obstinacy, was yet more resentful against 
the reasons than the obstinacy itself. The one galled him 
through his affections, the other through his pride ; and 
the first were as keen as the last was morbid. He was 
the more chafed, inasmuch as his anxiety of father be- 
came aroused. Isabel was really attached to Clarence, 
who, with all his errors, possessed every superficial 
attraction that graced his house ; gallant and handsome, 
gay and joyous, and with manners that made him no less 
popular than Edward himself. 

And if Isabel’s affections were not deep, disinterested, 
and tender, like those of Anne, they were strengthened 
by a pride which she inherited from her father, and a 
vanity which she took from her sex. It was galling in 
the extreme to feel that the loves between her and 
Clarence were the court gossip, and tlie king’s refusal the 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 465 

2onrt jest. Her health gave way, and pride and love 
both gnawed at her heart. 

It happened, unfortunately for the king and for War- 
wick, that Gloucester, whose premature acuteness and 
sagacity would have the more served both, inasmuch as 
the views he had formed in regard to Anne would have 
blended his interest, in some degree, with that of the 
Duke of Clarence, and certainly with the object of con- 
ciliation between Edward and his minister, — it happened, 
we say, unfortunately, that Gloucester was still absent 
with the forces employed on the Scottish frontier, whither 
he had repaired on quitting Middleham, and where his 
extraordinary military talents found their first brilliant 
opening, — and he was therefore absent from London 
during all the disgusts he might have removed, and the 
intrigues he might have frustrated. 

But the interests of the House of Warwick, during the 
earl’s sullen and indignant sojourn at his government of 
Calais, were not committed to unskilful hands ; and 
Montagu and the archbishop were well fitted to cope 
with Lord Rivers and the Duchess of Bedford. 

Between these able brothers, one day, at the More, an 
important conference took place. 

‘‘ I have sought you,” said Montagu, with more than 
usual care upon his brow — “I have sought you in con- 
sequence of an event that may lead to issues of no small 
moment, whether for good or evil. Clarence has suddenly 
left England for Calais.” 

“ I know it, Montagu ; the Duke confided to me his 
2 E 


46b 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


resolution to proclaim himself old enough to marry — and 
discreet enough to choose for himself.’’ 

“ And you approved ? ” 

“ Certes ; and, sooth to say, I brought him to that 
modest opinion of his own capacities. What is more 
still, I propose to join him at Calais I ” • 

“ George I ” 

“Look not so scared, O valiant captain, who never 
lost a battle — where the church meddles, all prospers. 
Listen I ” And the young prelate gathered himself up 
from his listless posture, and spoke with earnest unction 
— “Thou knowest that I do not much busy myself in 
lay schemes — when I do, the object must be great. I^ow, 
Montagu, I have of late narrowly and keenly watched 
that spidery web which ye call a court, and I see that the 
spider will devour the wasp, unless the wasp boldly break 
the web — for woman-craft I call the spider, and soldier- 
pride I style the wasp. To speak plainly, these Wood- 
villes must be bravely breasted and determinately abashed. 
I do not mean that we can deal with the king’s wife and 
her family as with any other foes ; but we must convince 
them that they cannot cope with us, and that their inter- 
ests will best consist in acquiescing to that condition of 
things which places the rule of England in the hands of 
the Neviles.” 

“ My own thought, if I saw the way ! ” 

“ I see the way in this alliance ; the houses of York 
and Warwick must become so indissolubly united, that 
an attempt to injure the one, must destroy both. The 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


467 


queen and the Woodvilles plot against us ; we must raise 
in the king’s family a counterpoise to their machinations. 
It brings no scandal on the queen to conspire against 
Warwick, but it would ruin her in the eyes of England 
to conspire against the king’s brother ; and Clarence and 
Warwick must be as one. This is not all I If our sole 
aid was in giddy George, we should but buttress our 
house with a weathercock. This connection is but as a 
part of the grand scheme on which I have set my heart — 
Clarence shall wed Isabel, Gloucester wed Anne, and 
(let thy ambitious heart beat high, Montagu) the king’s 
eldest daughter shall wed thy son — the male representa- 
tive of our triple honors. Ah, thine eyes sparkle now ! 
Thus the whole royalty of England shall centre in the 
Houses of Nevile and York ; and the Woodvilles will be 
caught and hampered in their own meshes — their resent- 
ment impotent ; for how can Elizabeth stir against us, if 
her daughter be betrothed to the son of Montagu, the 
nephew of Warwick ? Clarence, beloved by the shallow 
commons ; * Gloucester, adored both by the army and the 
church ; and Montagu and Warwick, the two great cap- 
tains of the age — is not this a combination of power, that 
may defy Fate?” 

“ Oh, George ! ” said Montagu, admiringly, “what pity 
that the church should spoil such a statesman !” 

* Singular as it may seem to those who know not that popularity 
is given to the vulgar qualities of men, and that where a noble 
nature becomes popular (a rare occurrence), it is despite the no- 
bleness — not because of it, Clarence was a popular idol even to 
the time of his death. — CroyL, 662. 


468 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

“ Thou art profane, Montagu ; the church spoils no 
man — the church leads and guides ye all ; and, mark, I 
look farther still. I would have intimate league with 
France ; I would strengthen ourselves with Spain and the 
German Emperor ; I would buy, or seduce the votes of the 
sacred college ; I would have the poor brother, whom 
thou so pitiest because he has no son to marry a king’s 
daughter — no daughter to wed with a king’s son — I 
would have thy unworthy brother, Montagu, the father 
of the whole Christian world, and, from the chair of the 
Vatican, watch over the weal of kingdoms. And now, 
seest thou why with to-morrow’s sun I depart for Calais, 
and lend my voice in aid of Clarence’s, for the first knot 
in this complicated bond?” 

“But, will Warwick consent while the king opposes ? 
Will his pride ” 

“ His pride serves us here ; for, so long as Clarence did 
not dare to gainsay the king, Warwick, in truth, might 
well disdain to press his daughter’s hand upon living 
man. The king opposes, but with what right? War- 
wick’s pride will but lead him, if well addressed, to defy 
affront, and to resist dictation. Besides, our brother has 
a woman’s heart for his children ; and Isabel’s face is 
pale, and that will plead more than all my eloquence.” 

“ But can the king forgive your intercession, and War- 
wick’s contumacy ? ” 

“Forgive I — the marriage once over, what is left for 
him to do ? He is then one with us, and when Gloucester 
returns all will be smooth again — smooth for the second 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


469 


and more important nuptials — and the second shall pre- 
face the third ; meanwhile, you return to the court. To 
these ceremonials you need be no party : keep but thy 
handsome son from breaking his neck in over-riding his 
hobby, and ‘bide thy time!’” 

Agreeably with the selfish, but sagacious policy, thus 
detailed, the prelate departed the next day for Calais, 
where Clarence was already urging his suit with the ar- 
dent impatience of amorous youth. The archbishop found, 
however, that Warwick was more reluctant than he had 
anticipated to suffer his daughter to enter any house with- 
out the consent of its chief ; nor would the earl, in all 
probability, have acceded to the prayers of the princely 
suitor, had not Edward, enraged at the flight of Clarence, 
and worked upon by the artful queen, committed the im- 
prudence of writing an intemperate and menacing letter 
to the earl, which called up all the passions of the haughty 
Warwick. 

“ What 1 ” he exclaimed, “ thinks this ungrateful man 
not only to dishonor me, by his method of marrying his 
sisters, but will he also play the tyrant with me in the 
disposal of mine own daughter I He threats ! he I — 
enough. It is due to me to show that there lives no man 
whose threats I have not the heart to defy ! ” And the 
prelate, finding him in this mood, had no longer any 
difficulty in winning his consent. This ill-omened mar- 
riage was, accordingly, celebrated with great and regal 
pomp at Calais, and the first object of the archbishop was 
attained. 

I. 40 


470 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


While thus stood affairs between the two great factions 
of the state, those discontents which Warwick’s presence 
at court had awhile laid at rest, again spread, broad and 
far, throughout the land. The luxury and indolence of 
Edward’s disposition, in ordinary times, always surisn- 
dered him to the guidance of others. In the commence- 
ment of his reign he was eminently popular, and his 
government, though stern, suited to the times ; for then 
the presiding influence was that of Lord Warwick. As 
the queen’s counvsels prevailed over the consummate ex- 
perience and masculine vigor of the earl, the king’s 
government lost both popularity and respect, except only 
in the metropolis ; and if, at the close of his reign, it 
regained all its earlier favor with the people, it must be 
principally ascribed to the genius of Hastings, then Eng- 
land’s most powerful subject, and whose intellect calmly 
moved all the springs of action. But now everywhere 
the royal authority was weakened ; and while Edward 
was feasting at Shene, and Warwick absent at Calais, the 
provinces were exposed to all the abuses which most gall 
a population. The poor complained that undue exactions 
were made on them by the hospitals, abbeys, and barons; 
the Church complained that the queen’s relations had 
seized and spent church moneys ; the men of birth and 
merit complained of the advancement of new men who 
had done no service ; and all these several discontents 
fastened themselves upon the odious Woodvilles, as the 
cause of all. The second breach, now notorious, between 
the king and the all-beloved Warwick, was a new aggra- 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


471 


vation of the popular hatred to the queen’s family, and 
seemed to give occasion for the malcontents to appear 
with impunity, at least so far as the earl was concerned : 
it was, then, at this critical time that the circumstances 
we are about to relate occurred. 


CHAPTER II. 

The would-be Improvers of Jove’s foot-ball, Earth — The sad father 
and the sad child — The fair rivals. 

Adam Warner was at work on his crucible when the 
servitor commissioned to attend him opened the chamber 
door, and a man dressed in the black gown of a student 
entered. 

He approached the alchemist, and after surveying him 
for a moment in a silence that seemed not without con- 
tempt, said, “What, Master Warner, are you so wedded 
to your new studies that you have not a word to bestow 
on an old friend ? ” 

Adam turned, and after peevishly gazing at the in- 
truder a few moments, his face brightened up into recog- 
nition. 

“ En iterum ! ” he said “Again, bold Robin Hilyard, 
and in a scholar’s garb ? Ha ! doubtless thou hast 
learned ere this that peaceful studies do best ensure man’s 
weal below, and art come to labor with me in the high 
craft of mind-work ! ” 


472 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


“Adam,” quoth Hilyard, “ ere I answer, tell me this — 
Thou, with thy science, wouldst change the world, — art 
thou a jot nearer to thy end?” 

“ Well-a-day,” said poor Adam, “ you know little what 
I have undergone. For danger to myself by rack and 
gibbet I say nought. Man’s body is fair prey to cruelty, 
and what a king spares to-day the worm shall gnaw to- 
morrow. But mine invention — my Eureka — look 1 ” and 
stepping aside, he lifted a cloth, and exhibited the mangled 
remains of the unhappy model. 

“ I am forbid to restore it,” continued Adam, dole- 
fully. “ I must work day and night to make gold, and 
the gold comes not : and my only change of toil is when 
the queen bids me construct little puppet-boxes for her 
children I How, then, can I change the world ? And 
thou,” he added, doubtingly and eagerly — “thou, with 
thy plots and stratagem, and active demagoguy, thickest 
thou that thou hast changed the world, or extracted one 
drop of evil out of the mixture of gall and hyssop which 
man is born to drink ? ” 

Hilyard was silent, and the two world -betterers the 

philosopher and the demagogue — gazed on each other, 
half in sympathy, half in contempt. At last Robin 
said — 

“ Mine old friend, hope sustains us both ; and in the 
wilderness we yet behold the^ Pisgah ! But to my busi- 
ness. Doubtless thou art permitted to visit Henry in 
his prison.” 

“ Not so,” replied Adam ; “ and for the rest, since I 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 473 

now eat King Edward’s bread, and enjoy what they call 
his protection, ill would it beseem me to lend myself to 
plots against his throne.” 

“Ah ! man — man — man,” exclaimed Hilyard, bitterly, 
“ thou art like all the rest — scholar or serf, the, same 
slave ; a king’s smile bribes thee from a people’s service !” 

Before Adam could reply, a panel in the wainscot slid 
back, and the bald head of a friar peered into the room. 
“ Son Adam,” said the holy man, “I crave your company 
an instant, oro vestrem aurem ; ” and with this abomi- 
nable piece of Latinity the friar vanished. 

With a resigned and mournful shrug of the shoulders, 
Adam walked across the room, when Hilyard, arresting 
his progress, said, crossing himself, and in a subdued and 
fearful whisper, “ Is not that Friar Bungey, the notable 
magician ? ” 

“ Magician or not,” answered Warner, with a lip of 
inexpressible contempt and a heavy sigh, “ God pardon 
his' mother for giving birth to such a numskull!” and 
with this pious and charitable ejaculation Adam disap- 
peared in the adjoining chamber, appropriated to the 
friar. 

“Hum,” soliloquized Hilyard, “they say that Friar 
Bungey is employed by the witch duchess in everlasting 
diabolisms against her foes. A peep into his den might 
suffice me for a stirring tale to the people.” 

No sooner did this daring desire arise, than the hardy 
Robin resolved to gratify it ; and stealing on tiptoe along 
The wall, he peered cautiously through the aperture made 
40 * 


4T4 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

by the sliding panel. An enormous stuffed lizard hung 
from the ceiling, and various strange reptiles, dried into 
mummy, were ranged around, and glared at the spy with 
green glass eyes. A huge book lay open on a tripod 
stand, and a caldron seethed over a slow and dull fire. 
A sight yet more terrible presently awaited the rash 
beholder. 

“Adam,” said the friar, laying his broad palm on the 
student’s reluctant shoulders, inter sapentes.^^ 

“ Sapientes, brother,” groaned Adam. 

“ That’s the old form, Adam,” quoth the friar, super- 
ciliously — ‘\sapentes is the last improvement. I say, 
between wise men there is no envy. Our noble and puis- 
sant patroness, the Duchess of Bedford, hath committed 
to me a task that promiseth much profit. I have worked 
at it night and day stotis 

“ 0, man, what lingo speakest thou ? — stotis filibus P' 

“ Tush, if it is not good Latin, it does as well, son 
Adam. I say I have worked at it night and day, and it 
is now advanced eno’ for experiment. But thou art 
going to sleep.” 

“ Despatch — speak out — speak on 1 ” said Adam, 
desperately — “what is thy achievement?” 

“ See I ” answered the friar, majestically ; and drawing 
aside a black pall, he exhibited to the eyes of Adam, and 
to the more startled gaze of Robin Hilyard, a pale, 
cadaverous, corpse-like image, of pigmy proportions, but 
with features moulded into a coarse caricature of the 
lordly countenance of the Earl of Warwick. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


475 


“ There,” said the friar, complacently, and rubbing his 
hands, that is no piece of bungling, eh ! As like the 
stout earl as one pea to another.” 

“And for what hast thou kneaded up all this waste of 
wax ? ” asked Adam. “ Forsooth, I knew not you had 
so much of ingenious art ; algates, the toy is somewhat 
ghastly. ” 

“ Ho, ho ! ” quoth the friar, laughing so as to show a 
set of jagged, discolored fangs from ear to ear, “surely 
thou, who art so notable a wizard and scholar, knowest 
for what purpose we image forth our enemies. Whatever 
the duchess inflicts upon this figure, the Earl of Warwick, 
whom it representeth, will feel through his bones and 
marrow — waste w'ax, waste man ! ” 

“ Thou art a devil to do this thing, and a blockhead 
to think it, 0 miserable friar ! ” exclaimed Adam, roused 
from all his gentleness. 

“ Ha 1 ” cried the friar, no less vehemently, and his 
burly face purple with passion, “ dost thou think to bandy 
words with me ? Wretch ! I will set goblins to pinch 
thee black and blue. I will drag thee at night over all 
the jags at Mount Pepanon, at the tail of a mad night- 
mare. I will put aches in all thy bones, and the blood in 
thy veins shall run into sores and blotches. Am I not 
Friar Bungey ? and what art thou?” 

At these terrible denunciations, the sturdy Robin, 
though far less superstitious than most of his contempo- 
raries, was seized with a trembling from head to foot ; 
and expectirig to see goblins and imps stait foith from 


4T6 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


the walls, he retired hastily from his hiding-place, and, 
without waiting for further commune with Warner, softly 
opened the chamber-door, and stole down the stairs. 
Adam, however, bore the storm unquailingly, and when 
the holy man paused to take breath, he said, calmly — 

“ Yerily, if thou canst do these things, there must be 
secrets in Nature which I have not yet discovered. How- 
beit, though thou art free to try all thou canst against 
me, thy threats make it necessary that this communication 
between us should be nailed up, and I shall so order.” 

The friar, who was ever in want of Adam’s aid, either 
to construe a bit of Latin, or to help him in some che- 
mical illusion, by no means relished this quiet retort ; and 
holding out his huge hand to Adam, said, with affected 
cordiality — 

“ Pooh ! we are brothers, and must not quarrel. I 
was over-hot, and thou too provoking; but I honor and 
love thee, man — let it pass. As for this figure, doubtless 
we might pink it all over, and the earl be never the worse. 
But if our employers order these things, and pay for 
them, we cunning men make profit by fools ! ” 

“ It is men like thee that bring shame on science,” an- 
swered Adam, sternly ; “ and I will not listen to thee 
longer.” 

“Nay, but you must,” said the friar, clutching Adam’s 
robe, and concealing his resentment by an affected grin. 
“ Thou thinkest me a mere ignoramus — ha ! ha I — I think 
the same of thee. Why, man, thou hast never studmd 
the parts of the human body. I’ll swear.” 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 477 

‘I’m no leech,” said Adam. “ Let me go.” 

‘ No — not yet. I will convict thee of ignorance. Thou 
dost not even know where the liver is placed.” 

“ I do,” answered Adam, shortly : “ but what then ?” 

“ Thou dost ! — I deny it. Here is a pin ; stick into 
this wax, man, where thou sayest the liver lies in the 
human frame.” 

Adam unsuspiciously obeyed. 

“Well I — the liver is there, eh ? Ah ! but where are 
the lungs?” 

“Why, here.” 

“And the midriff?” 

“HeVe, certes.” 

“ Right ! — thou mayest go now,” said the friar, drily. 
Adam disappeared through the aperture, and closed the 
panel. 

“ Now I know where the lungs, midriff, and liver are,” 
said the friar to himself, “ I shall get on famously. ’Tis ^ 
a useful fellow, that, or I should have had him hanged 
long ago ! ” 

Adam did not remark, on his re-entrance, that his 
visitor, Hilyard, had disappeared ; and the philosopher 
was soon re-immersed in the fiery interest of his thank- 
less labors. 

It might be an hour afterwards, when, wearied and 
exhausted by perpetual hope and perpetual disappoint- 
ment, he flung himself on his seat ; and that deep sad- 
ness, which they who devote themselves in this noisy world 


4’f8 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

to wisdom and to truth alone can know — suffused his 
thoughts, and murmured from his feverish lips. 

“ Oh, hard condition of my life ! ’’ groaned the sage — 
“ ever to strive, and never to accomplish. The sun sets 
and the sun rises upon my eternal toils, and ray age stands 
as distant from the goal, as stood my youth I Fast, fast 
the mind is wearing out the frame, and ray schemes have 
but woven the ropes of sand, and my name shall be writ 
in water. Golden dreams of my young hope, where are 
ye ? Methought once, that could I obtain the grace of 
royalty, the ear of power, the command of wealth, my 
path to glory was made smooth and sure — I should be- 
come the grand inventor of my time and land ; I should 
leave my lore a heritage and blessing wherever labor 
works to civilize the round globe. And now ray lodging 
is a palace — royalty my patron — they give me gold at 
my desire — ray wants no longer mar my leisure. Well, 
f and for what ? On condition that I forego the sole task 
for which patronage, wealth, and leisure were desired ! 
There stands the broken iron, and there simmers the ore 
I am to turn to gold — the iron worth more than all the 
gold, and the gold, never to be won I Poor, I was an 
inventor, a creator, the true magician — protected, pa- 
tronized, enriched, I am but the alchemist, the bubble, 
the dupe or duper, the fool’s fool. God brace up my 
limbs ! Let me escape — give me back my old dream, and 
die at least, if accomplishing nothing, hoping all ! ” 

He rose as he spoke ; he strode across the chamber 
with majestic step, with resolve upon his brow. He 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


479 


stopped short, for a sharp pain shot across his heart. 
Premature age, and the disease that labor brings, were 
at their work of decay within : the mind’s excitement 
gave way to the body’s weakness, and he sank again upon 
his seat, breathing hard, gasping, pale, the icy damps 
upon his brow. Bubblingly seethed the molten metals, 
redly glowed the poisonous charcoal, the air of death was 
hot within the chamber where the victim of royal will 
pandered to the desire of gold. Terrible and eternal 
moral for Wisdom and for Avarice, for sages and for 
kings — ever shall he who would be the maker of gold, 
breathe the air of death I 

“ Father,” said the low and touching voice of one who 
had entered un perceived, and who now threw her arms 
round Adam’s neck, “father, thou art ill, and sorely 
suffering ” 

“At heart — yes, Sibyll. Give me thine arm; let us 
forth and taste the fresher air.” 

It was so seldom that Warner could be induced to quit 
his chamber, that these words almost startled Sibyll, and 
she looked anxiously in his face as she wiped the dews 
from his forehead. 

“Yes — air — air!” repeated Adam, rising. 

Sibyll placed his bonnet over his silvered locks, drew 
his gown more closely round him, and slowly, and in 
silence, they left the chamber, and took their way across 
the court to the ramparts of the fortress-palace. 

The day was calm and genial, with a low but fresh 
breeze stirring gently through the warmth of noon. The 


480 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


father and child seated themselves on the parapet, and 
saw, below, the gay and numerous vessels that glided 
over the sparkling river, while the dark walls of Bay- 
nard’s Castle, the adjoining bulwark and battlements of 
Montfichet, and the tall watch-tower of Warwick’s mighty 
mansion, frowned in the distance, against the soft blue 
sky. “ There,” said Adam, quietly, and pointing to the 
feudal roofs, “there seems to rise power — and yonder 
(glancing to the river), yonder seems to flow Genius ! 
A century or so hence, the walls shall vanish, but the 
river shall roll on. Man makes the castle, and founds 
the power — God forms the river, and creates the genius. 
And yet, Sibyll, there may be streams as broad and 
stately as yonder Thames, that flow afar in the waste, 
never seen, never heard by man. What profits the river 
unmarked ? — what the genius never to be known ?” 

It was not a common thing with Adam Warner to be 
thus eloquent. Usually silent and absorbed, it was not 
his gift to moralize or declaim. His soul must be deeply 
moved before the profound and buried sentiment within 
it could escape into words. 

Sibyll pressed her father’s hand, and, though her own 
heart was very heavy, she forced her lips to smile and her 
voice to soothe. Adam interrupted her. 

“ Child, child, ye women know not what presses darkest 
and most bitterly on the minds of men. You know not 
what it is to form out of immaterial things some abstract 
but glorious object— -to worship— to serve it— to sacrifice 
to it, as on an altar, youth, health, hope, life — and sud- 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 481 

denly, in old age, to see that the idol was a phantom, a 
mockery, a shadow laughing us to scorn, because we have 
sought to clasp it.” 

“ Oh, yes, father, women have known that illusion.” 

“What I Do they study?” 

“No' father, but they feell” 

“Feel! I comprehend thee not.” 

“As man’s genius to him, is woman’s heart to her,” 
answered Sibyll, her dark and deep eyes suffused with 
tears. “Doth not the heart create — invent? Doth it 
not dream ? Doth it not form its idol out of air ? Goeth I 
it not forth into the future, to prophesy to itself? And, 
sooner or later, in age or youth, doth it not wake at last, 
and see how it hath wasted its all on follies? Yes, 
father, my heart can answer, when thy genius would com- 
plain.” 

“Sibyll,” said Warner, roused and surprised, and 
gazing on her wistfully, “ time flies apace. Till this hour 
I have thought of thee but as a child — an infant. Thy 
words disturb me now.’^ 

“ Think not of them, then. Let me never add one 
grief to thine.” 

“ Thou art brave and gay in thy silken sheen,” said 
Adam, curiously stroking down the rich, smooth stuff of 
Sibyll’s tunic ; “ her grace the duchess is generous to us. 
Thou art surely happy here I ” 

“ Happy ! ” 

‘Not happy!” exclaimed Adam, almost joyfully, 

I. —41 2p 


i82 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

“ wouldst thou that we were back once more in our 
desolate ruined home ? ’’ 

“Yes, oh, yes I — but rather away, far away, in some 
quiet village, some green nook ; for the desolate, ruined 
home was not safe for thine old age.’’ 

“I would we could escape, Sibyll,” said Adam, earn- 
estly, in a whisper, and with a kind of innocent cunning 
in his eye, “ we and the poor Eureka I The palace is a 
prison-house to me. I will speak to the Lord Hastings, 
a man of great excellence, and gentle too. He is ever 
kind to us.” 

“No, no, father, not to him,” cried Sibyll, turning pale 
— “let him not know a word of what we would propose, 
nor whither we would fly.” 

“ Child, he loves me, or why does he seek me so often, 
and sit and talk not ? ” 

Sibyll pressed her clasped hands tightly to her bosom, 
but made no answer ; and, while she was summoning 
courage to say something that seemed to oppress her 
thoughts with intolerable weight, a footstep sounded 
gently near, and the Lady of Bonville (then on a visit 
to the queen), unseen and unheard by the two, approached 
the spot. She paused, and gazed at Sibyll, at first 
haughtily ; and then, as the deep sadness of that young 
face struck her softer feelings, and the pathetic picture 
of father and child, thus alone in their commune, made 
its pious and sweet effect, the gaze changed from pride, 
to compassion, and the lady said, courteously — 

“Fair mistress, canst thou prefer this solitary scene to 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


483 


the gay company about to take the air in her grace’s 
gilded barge ? ” 

Sibyll looked up in surprise, not un mixed with fear. 
Never before had the great lady spoken to her thus 
gently. Adam, who seemed for a while restored to the 
actual life, saluted Katherine with simple dignity, and 
took up the word — 

“Noble lady, whoever thou art, in thine old age, and 
thine hour of care, may thy child, like this poor girl, for- 
sake all gayer comrades for a parent’s side I ” 

The answer touched the Lady of Bonville, and invol- 
untarily she extended her hand to Sibyll. With a swell- 
ing heart, Sibyll, as proud as herself, bent silently over 
that rival’s hand. Katherine’s marble cheek colored, as 
she interpreted the girl’s silence. 

“ Gentle sir,” she said, after a short pause, “ wilt thou 
permit me a few words with thy fair daughter ? and if in 
aught, since thou speakest of care, Lord Warwick’s 
sister can serve thee, prithee bid thy young maiden 
impart it, as to a friend.” 

“Tell her, then, my Sibyll — tell Lord Warwick’s 
sister, to ask the king to give back to Adam Warner his 
poverty, his labor, and his hope,” said the scholar, and 
his noble head sank gloomily on his bosom. 

The lady of Bonville, still holding Sibyll’s hand, drew 
her a few paces up the walk, and then she said suddenly, 
and with some of that blunt frankness which belonged 
to her great brother, “Maiden, can there be confidence 
betw'een thee and me ? ” 


484 THE LAST OF THE BARON’S. 

“ Of what nature, lady ? ” 

Again Katherine blushed, but she felt the small hand 
she held tremble in her clasp, and was emboldened — 

“ Maiden, thou mayst resent and marvel at my words ; 
but, when I had fewer years than thou, my father said, 

‘ There are many carks in life which a little truth could 
end.’ So would I heed his lesson. William de Hastings 
has followed thee with a homage that has broken, per- 
chance, many as pure a heart — nay, nay, fair child, hear 
me on. Thou hast heard that in youth he wooed Kathe- 
rine Nevile — that we loved, and were severed. They 
who see us now, marvel whether we hate or love — no, 
not love — that question were an insult to Lord Bonville’s 
wife 1 — Ofttimes we seem pitiless to each other, — why ? 
Lord Hastings would have wooed me, an English matron, 
to forget mine honor and my house’s. He chafes that he 
moves me not. /behold him debasing a great nature, to 
unworthy triflings with man’s conscience and a knight’s 
bright faith. But mark me ! — the heart of Hastings is 
everlastingly mine, and mine alone ! What seek I in this 
confidence ? To warn thee. Wherefore ? Because for 
months, amidst all the hateful vices of this foul court- 
air — amidst the insidious flatteries of the softest voice 
that ever fell upon woman’s ear — amidst, perad venture, 
the pleadings of thine own young and guileless love — 
thine innocence remains unscathed. And therefore is it 
that Katherine of Bonville may be the friend of Sibyll 
Warner.” 

However generous niiglit be tlie true spirit of these 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS, 


485 


words, it was impossible that they should not gall and 
humiliate the young and flattered beauty to whom they 
were addressed. They so wholly discarded all belief in 
the affection of Hastings for Sibyll ; they so haughtily 
arrogated the mastery over his heart ; they so plainly 
implied that his suit to the poor maiden was but a 
mockery or dishonor, that they made even the praise for 
virtue an affront to the delicate and chaste ear on which 
they fell. And, therefore, the reader will not be aston- 
ished, though the Lady of Bonville certainly was, when 
Sibyll, drawing her hand from Katherine’s clasp, stopping 
short, and calmly folding her arms upon her bosom, 
said — 

“ To what this tends, lady, I know not. The Lord 
Hastings is free to carry his homage where he will. He 
has sought me — not I Lord Hastings. And if to- 
morrow he offered me his hand, I would reject it, if I 
were not convinced that the heart-- — ” 

“Damsel,” interrupted the Lady Bonville, in amazed 
contempt, “ the hand of Lord Hastings I Look ye indeed 
so high, or has he so far paltered with your credulous 
youth as to speak to you, the daughter of the alchemist, 
of marriage. If so, poor child, beware ! ” 

“I knew not,” replied Sibyll, bitterly, “that Sibyll 
Warner was more below the state of Lord Hastings, than 
Master Hastings was once below the state of Lady 
Katherine Nevile.” 

“ Thou art distraught with thy self-conceit,” answered 
the dame, scornfully ; and, losing all the compassion and 
41 * 


486 


THE LAST or THE BARONS. 


friendly interest she had before felt, “ my rede is spoken 
reject it, if thou wilt, in pride. Rue thy folly thou wilt in 
shame.” 

She drew her wimple round her face as she said these • 
words, and, gathering up her long robe, swept slowly on. 


CHAPTER III. 

Wherein the Demagogue seeks the Courtier. 

On quitting Adam’s chamber, Hilyard paused not till 
he reached a stately house, not far from Warwick Lane, 
which was the residence of the Lord Montagu. 

That nobleman was employed in reading, or rather, in 
pondering over, two letters, with which a courier from 
Calais had just arrived — the one from the archbishop, the 
other from Warwick. In these epistles were two passa- 
ges, strangely contradictory in their counsel. A sentence 
in Warwick’s letter ran thus : “ It hath reached me, that 
certain disaffected men meditate a rising against the king, 
under pretext of wrongs from the queen’s kin. It is even 
said that our kinsmen, Coniers and Fitzhugh, are engaged 
therein. Need I caution thee to watch well that they 
bring our name into no disgrace or attaint. We want 
no aid to right our own wrongs; and if the misguided 
men rebel, Warwick will best punish Edward, by proving 
that he is yet of use.” 

On the other hand, thus wrote the prelate ; — 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


481 


“The king, wroth with my visit to Calais, has taken 
from me the chancellor’s seal. I humbly thank him, and 
shall sleep the lighter for the fardel’s loss. Now, mark 
me, Montagu : our kinsman. Lord Fitzhugh’s son, and 
young Henry Nevile, aided by old Sir John Coniers, 
meditate a fierce and well-timed assault upon the Wood- 
villes. Ho thou keep neuter — neither help nor frustrate 
it. Howsoever it end, it will answer our views, and 
shake our enemies.” 

Montagu was yet musing over these tidings, and mar- 
velling that he in England should know less than his 
brethren in Calais of events so important, when his page 
informed him that a stranger, with urgent messages from 
the north country, craved an audience. Imagining that 
these messages would tend to illustrate the communica 
tions just received, he ordered the visitor to be admitted. 

He scarcely noticed Hilyard on his entrance, and said, 
abruptly. “Speak shortly, friend — I have but little 
leisure.” 

“And yet. Lord Montagu, my business may touch thee 
home ! ” 

Montagu, surprised, gazed more attentively on his 
visitor : “ Surely, I know thy face, friend — we have met 
before. ” 

“ True : thou wert then on thy way to the More.” 

“ I remember me ; and thou then seem’dst, from thy 
bold words, on a still shorter road to the gallows.” 

“The tree is not planted,” said Robin, carelessly, 
“ that will serve for my gibbet. But were there no words 


488 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

uttered by me that thou couldst not disapprove ? I 
spoke of lawless disorders — of shameful malfaisance 
throughout the land — which the Woodvilles govern under 
a lewd tyrant 

“ Traitor, hold ! 

“A tyrant, ’’.continued Robin (heeding not the inter- 
ruption nor the angry gesture of Montagu), “ a tyrant 
who at this moment meditates the destruction of the 
house of Nevile. And not contented with this world’s 
weapons, palters with the Evil One for the snares and 
deviltries of witchcraft.” 

“ Hush, man I Not so loud,” said Montagu, in an 
altered voice. “Approach nearer — nearer yet> They 
who talk of a crowned king — whose right hand raises 
armies, and whose left hand reposes on the block — should 
beware how they speak above their breath. Witchcraft, 
sayest thou? Make thy meaning clear.” 

Here Robin detailed, with but little exaggeration, the 
scene he had witnessed in Friar Bungey’s chamber. — the 
waxen image, the menaces against the Earl of Warwick, 
and the words of the friar, naming the Duchess of Bed- 
ford as his employer. Montagu listened in attentive 
silence. Though not perfectly free from the credulities 
of the time, shared even by the courageous heart of 
Edward, and the piercing intellect of Gloucester, he was 
yet more alarmed by such proofs of determined earthly 
hostility in one so plotting and so near to the throne as 
the Duchess of Bedford, than by all the pins and needles 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 48^ 

that could be planted into the earPs waxen counter- 
part — 

‘A devilish malice, indeed,” said he, when Hilyard 
had concluded; “and yet this story, if thou wilt adhere 
to it, may serve us well at need. I thank thee, trusty 
friend, for thy confidence, and beseech thee to come at 
once with me to the king. There will I denounce our 
foe, and, with thine evidence, we will demand her banish- 
ment.” 

“By your leave, not a step will I budge, my Lord 
Montagu,” quoth Robin, bluntly — -“I know how these 
matters are managed at court. The king will patch up 
a peace between the duchess and you, and chop off my 
ears and nose as a liar and common scandal-maker. No, 
no; denounce the duchess and all the Woodvilles, I 
will ; — but it shall not be in the halls of the Tower, but 
on the broad plains of Yorkshire, with twenty thousand 
men at my back.” 

“ Ha I thou a leader of armies — and for what end ? — 
to dethrone the king?” 

“That as it may be— but first for justice to the people ; 
it is the people’s rising that I will head, and not a 
faction’s. Neither White Rose nor Red shall be on my 
banner, but our standard shall be the gory head of the 
first oppressor we can place upon a pole.” 

“ What is it, the people, as you word it, would de- 
mand ? ” 

“I scarce know what we demand as yet — that must 
depend upon how we prosper,” returned Hilyard, with a 


490 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


bitter laugh; “but the rising will have some good, if it 
shows only to you lords and Normans that a Saxon 
people does exist, and will turn when the iron heel is 
upon its neck. We are taxed, ground, pillaged, plun- 
dered — sheep, maintained to be sheared for your peace, 
or butchered for your war. And now will we have a 
petition and a charter of our own. Lord Montagu. I 
speak frankly — lam in thy power — thou c an st arrest 
me — thou canst strike off the head of this revolt. Thou 
art the king’s friend — wilt thou do so ? No, thou and 
thy house have wrongs as well as we, the people. And a 
part, at least, of our demands and our purpose is your 
own.” 

“ What part, bold man ? ” 

“ This : we shall make our first complaint the baneful 
domination of the queen’s family ; and demand the ban- 
ishment of the Woodvilles, root and stem.” 

“ Hem I ” said Montagu, involuntarily glancing over 
the archbishop’s letter — “hem, but without outrage to 
the king’s state and person?” 

“ Oh, trust me, my lord, the franklin’s head contains 
as much north-country cunning as the noble’s. They who 
would speed well, must feel their way cautiously.” 

“ Twenty thousand men — impossible ! Who art thou, 
to collect and head them ? ” 

“Plain Robin of Redesdale.” 

“ Ha ! ” exclaimed Montagu, “ is it indeed, as I was 
taught to suspect! Art thou that bold, strange, mad 
fellow, whom, by pike and brand — a soldier’s oath — I 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


491 


a soldier, have often longed to see. Let me look at 
thee. ’Fore St. George, a tall man, and well knit, with 
dareiment in thy brow. Why, there are as many tales 
of thee in the north as of my brother the earl. Some 
say thou art a lord of degree and birth, others' that thou 
art the robber of Hexham, to whom Margaret of Anjou 
trusted her own life and her son’s.’’ 

"Whatever they say of me,” returned Robin, “they 
all agree in this, that I am a man of honest word and 
bold deed — that I' can. stir up the hearts of men, as the 
wind stirreth Are — that I came an unknown stranger into 
the parts where I abide, and that no peer in this roiaulme, 
save Warwick himself, can do more to raise an army, or 
shake a throne.” 

“But by what spell?” 

“By men’s wrongs, lord,” answered Robin, in a deep 
voice ; — “ and now, ere this moon wanes, 'Redesdale is a 
camp ! ” 

“ What the immediate cause of complaint ? ” 

“ The hospital of St. Leonard’s has compelled us un- 
justly to render them a thrave of corn.” 

“Thou art a cunning knave ! Pinch the belly if you 
would make Englishmen rise.” 

“True,” said Robin, smiling grimly — “and now — 
what say you — will you head us?” 

“ Head you ! No ! ” 

“Will you betray us?” 

“ It is not easy to betray twenty thousand men ; if ye 
rise merely to free yourselves from a corn-tax, and Eng- 


4S2 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


land from the Woodvilles, I see no treason in your 
revolt.” 

I understand you, Lord Montagu,” said Robin, with 
a stern and half-scornful smile — “you are not above 
thriving by our danger ; but we need now no lord and 
baron — we will sufiBce for ourselves. And the hour will 
come, believe me, when Lord Warwick, pursued by the 
king, must fly to the commons. Think well of these 
things and this prophecy, when the news from the north 
startles Edward of March in the lap of his harlots.” 

Without saying another word, he turned and quitted 
the chamber as abruptly as he had entered. 

Lord Montagu was not, for his age, a bad man ; though 
worldly, subtle, and designing ; with some of the craft 
of his prelate brother, he united something of the high 
soul of his brother soldier. But that age had not the 
virtue of later times, and cannot be judged by its standard, 
lie heard this bold dare-devil menace his country with 
civil war upon grounds not plainly stated, nor clearly 
understood — he aided not, but he connived : “Twenty 

thousand men in arms,” he muttered to himself “say 

half— well, ten thousand — not against Edward, but the 
Woodvilles ! It must bring the king to his senses— must 
prove to him how odious the mushroom race of the 
Woodvilles, and drive him for safety and for refuge to 
Montagu and Warwick. If the knaves presume too far,” 
(and Montagu smiled,)— “ what are undisciplined multi- 
tudes to the eye of a skilful captain ? Let the storm 
blow, we will guide the blast. In this world, man must 
make use of man.” 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


493 


CHAPTER lY. 

Sibyll. 

While Montagu, in anxious forethought, awaited the 
revolt that Robin of Redesdale had predicted — while 
Edward feasted and laughed, merry-made with his cour- 
tiers, and aided the conjugal duties of his good citizens 
in London — while the queen and her father. Lord Rivers^ 
more and more in the absence of Warwick, encroached 
on all the good things power can bestow and avarice 
seize — while the Duchess of Bedford and Friar Bungey 
toiled hard at the waxen effigies of the great earl, who 
still held his royal son-in-law in his court at Calais — the 
stream of our narrative winds from its noisier channels, 
and lingers, with a quiet wave, around the temple of a 
virgin’s heart. Wherefore is Sibyll sad ? Some short 
months since, and we beheld her gay with hope, and 
basking in the sunny atmosphere of pleasure and of love. 
The mind of. this girl was a singular combination of 
tenderness and pride — the first wholly natural, the last 
the result of circumstance and position. She was keenly 
\;onscious of her gentle birth, and her earlier prospects 
in the court of Margaret : and the poverty, and distress 
and solitude in which she had grown up from the child 
tnto the woman, had only served to strenglhcn what, in 

1.— 42 


494 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


her nature, was already strong, and to heighten whatever 
was already proud. Ever in her youngest dreams of the 
future, ambition had visibly blent itself with the vague 
ideas of love. The imagined wooer was less to be young 
and fair, than renowned and stately. She viewed him 
through the mists of the future, as the protector of her 
persecuted father— as the rebuilder of a fallen house — as 
the ennobler of a humbled name. And from the moment 
in which her girPs heart beat at the voice of Hastings, 
the ideal of her soul seemed found. And when trans- 
planted to the court, she learned to judge of her native 
grace and loveliness by the common admiration they 
excited, her hopes grew justified to her inexperienced 
reason. Often and ever the words of Hastings, at the 
house of the Lady Longueville, rang in her ear, and 
thrilled through the solitude of night — “ Whoever is fair 
and chaste, gentle and loving, is, in the eyes of William 
de Hastings, the mate and equal of a king.” In visits 
that she had found opportunity to make to the Lady 
Longueville, these hopes were duly fed ; for the old Lan- 
castrian detested the Lady Bonville, as Lord Warwick’s 
sister, and she would have reconciled her pride to view- 
with complacency his alliance with the alchemist’s daughter, 
if it led to his estrangement from the memory of his first 
love ; and, tlierefore, when her quick eye penetrated the 
secret of Sibyll’s heart, and when she witnessed — for 
Hastings often encountered (and seemed to seek the 
encounter) the young maid at Lady Longueville’s house 
— the unconcealed admiration which justified Sibyl) in 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 495 

her high-placed affection, she scrupled not to encourage 
the blushing girl, by predictions in which she forced her 
own better judgment to believe. Nor, when she learned 
SibylPs descent from a family that had once ranked as 
high as that of Hastings, would she allow that there was 
any disparity in the alliance she foretold. But more, far 
more than Lady Longueville’s assurances, did the delicate 
and unceasing gallantries of Hastings himself flatter the 
fond faith of Sibyll. True, that he spoke not actually 
of love, but every look implied, every whisper seemed to 
betray it. And to her he spoke as to an equal, not in 
birth alone, but in mind ; so superior was she in culture, 
in natural gifts, and, above all, in that train of high 
thought, and elevated sentiment, in which genius ever 
finds a sympathy, to the court-flutterers of her sex, that 
Hastings, whether or not he cherished a warmer feeling, 
might well take pleasure in her converse, and feel the 
lovely infant worthy the wise man’s trust. He spoke to 
her without reserve of the Lady Bonville, and he spoke 
with bitterness. “I loved her,” he said, “as woman is 
rarely loved. She deserted me for another — rather should 
she have gone to the convent than the altar ; and now, 
forsooth, she deems she hath the right to taunt and to 
rate me, to dictate to me the way I should walk, and to 
flaunt the honors I have won.” 

“May that be no sign of a yet tender interest?” said 
Sibyl], timidly. 

The eyes of Hastings sparkled for a moment, but the 
gleam vanished. “Nay, you know her not. Her heart 


496 


THE LAST OE THE BARONS. 


•s marble, as hard and as cold. Her very virtue but the- 
absence of emotional would say, of gentler emotion — 
for, pardieu, such emotions as come from ire and pride 
and scorn, are the daily growth of that stern soil. Oh, 
happy was my escape ! — happy the desertion, which my 
young folly deemed a curse. No I ” he added, with a 
sarcastic quiver of his lip — “No ; what stings and galls 
the Lady of Harrington and Bonville — what makes her 
countenance change in my presence, and her voice sharpen 
at my accost, is plainly this : in wedding her dull lord, 
and rejecting me, Katherine Nevile deemed she wedded 
power, and rank, and station ; and now, while we are 
both young, how proves her choice ? The Lord of Har- 
rington and Bonville Is so noted a dolt, that even the 
Neviles cannot help him to rise — the meanest office is 
above his mind’s level ; and, dragged down by the heavy 
clay to which her wings are yoked, Katherine, Lady of 
Harrington and Bonville — oh, give her her due titles I— 
is but a pageant figure in the court. If the war-trump 
blew, his very vassals would laugh at a Bonville’s banner, 
and beneath the flag of poor William Hastings would 
gladly march the best chivalry of the land. And this it 
is, I say, that galls her. For evermore she is driven to 
compare the state she holds as the dame of the accepted 
Bonville, with that she lost as the wife of the disdained 
Hastings. ” 

And if, in the heat and passion that such words be- 
trayed, Sibyll sighed to think that something of the old 
rememl)raiice yet swelled and burned, they but impressed 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 497 

her more with the value of a heart, in whicli the charac- 
ters once writ endured so long, — and roused her to a 
tender ambition to heal and to console. 

Then looking into her own deep soul, Sibyll beheld 
there a fund of such generous, pure, and noble affection 
— such reverence as to the fame — such love as to the 
man, that she proudly felt herself worthier of Hastings 
than the haughty Katherine. She entered then, as it 
were, the lists with this rival — a memory rather, so she 
thought, than a corporeal being ; and her eye grew 
brighter, her step statelier, in the excitement of the con- 
test — the anticipation of the triumph. For, what diamond 
without its flaw ? what rose without its canker ? And 
bedded deep in that exquisite and charming nature, lay 
the dangerous and fatal weakness which has cursed so 
many victims, broken so many hearts — the vanity of the 
sex. We may now readily conceive how little predis- 
posed was Sibyll to the blunt advances and displeasing 
warnings of the Lady Bonville, and the more so from the 
time in which they chanced. For here comes the answer 
to the question — “ Why was Sibyll sad ? ” 

The reader may determine for himself what were the 
ruling motives of Lord Hastings in the court he paid to 
Sibyll. Whether to pique the Lady Bonville, and force 
upon her the jealous pain he restlessly sought to inflict — 
whether, from the habit of his careless life, seeking the 
pleasure of the moment, with little forethought of the 
future, and reconciling itself to much cruelty, by that 
profound contempt for human beings, man, and still more 
42 * 2 G 


4^8 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

for woman, which sad experience often brings to acute 
intellect — or whether, from the purer and holier com- 
placency with which one, whose youth has fed upon 
nobler aspirations than manhood cares to pursue, suns 
itself back to something of its earlier lustre in the pre- 
sence and the converse of a young bright soul ; — What- 
ever, in brief, the earlier motives of gallantries to Sibyll, 
once begun, constantly renewed, — by degrees wilder, and 
warmer, and guiltier emotions, roused up in the universal 
and all-conquering lover the vice of his softer nature. 
When calm and unimpassioned, his conscience had said 
to him, — “ Thou shalt spare that flower.” But when once 
the passion was roused within him, the purity Of the 
flower was forgotten in the breath of its voluptuous 
sweetness. 

And but three days before the scene we have described 
with Katherine, Sibyll’s fabric of hope fell to the dust. 
For Hastings spoke for the first time of love — for the 
first time knelt at her feet — for the first time, clasping to 
his heart that virgin hand, poured forth the protestation 
and the vow. And oh I woe — woe ! for the first time 
she learned how cheaply the great man held the poor 
maiden’s love, how little he deemed that purity and genius 
and affection equalled the possessor of fame and wealth 
and power ; for plainly visible, boldly shown and spoken, 
the love that she had foreseen as a glory from Heaven, 
sought but to humble her to the dust. 

The anguish of that moment was unspeakable — and 
she spoke it not. But as she broke from the profaning 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


499 


clasp, as escaping to the threshold, she cast on the un- 
worthy wooer one look of such reproachful sorrow, as 
told at once all her love and all her horror, — the first act 
in the eternal tragedy of man’s wrong and woman’s grief 
was clovsed. And therefore was Sibyll sad I 


CHAPTER V. 

Katherine. 

For several days Hastings avoided Sibyll ; in truth, he 
felt remorse for his design, and in his various, active, and 
brilliant life, he had not the leisure for obstinate and 
systematic siege to a single virtue, nor was he, perhaps, 
* iny longer capable of deep and enduring passion ; his 
heart, like that of many a chevalier in the earlier day, 
had lavished itself upon one object, and sullenly, upon 
regrets and dreams, and vain anger and idle scorn, it had 
exhausted those sentiments which make the sum of true 
love. And so, like Petrarch, whom his taste and fancy 
worshipped, and many another votary of the gentil Dieu, 
while his imagination devoted itself to the chaste and 
distant ideal — the spiritual Laura — his senses, ever 
vagrant and disengaged, settled without scruple, upon 
the thousand Cynthias of the minute. But then, those 
Cynthias were, for the most part, and especially of late 
years, easy and light-won nymphs ; their coyest were of 
another clay from the tender but lofty Sibyll. And 


500 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


Hastings shrunk from the cold-blooded and deliberate 
seduction of one so pure, while he could not reconcile his 
mind to contemplate marriage with a girl who could give 
nothing to his ambition ; and yet it was not, in this last 
reluctance, only his ambition that startled and recoiled. 
In that strange tyranny over his whole soul, which Kathe- 
rine Bonville secretly exercised, he did not dare to place ' 
a new barrier evermore between her and himself. The 
Lord Bonville was of infirm health ; he had been more 
than once near to death’s door, and Hastings, in every 
succeeding fancy that beguiled his path, recalled the 
thrill of his heart, when it had whispered, “ Katherine, 
the loved of thy youth, may yet be thine ! ” And then 
that Katherine rose before him, not as she now swept the 
earth, with haughty step, and frigid eye, and disdainful 
lip, but as — in all her bloom of maiden beauty, before the' 
temper was soured, or the pride aroused, — she had met 
him in the summer twilight, by the trysting-tree ; — broken 
with him the golden ring of faith, and wept upon his 
bosom. 

And yet, during his brief and self-inflicted absence 
from Sibyll, this wayward and singular personage, who 
was never weak but to women, and ever weak to them, 
felt that she had made herself far dearer to him than he 
had at first supposed it possible. He missed that face, 
ever, till the last interview, so confiding in the uncon- 
sciously betrayed affection. He felt how superior in 
sweetness, and yet in intellect, Sibyll was to Katherine ; 
there was more in common between her mind and his in 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


501 


all things, save one. But oh, that one exception ! — what 
a world was within it — the memory of the spring life ! 
In fact, though Hastings knew it not, he was in love with 
two objects at once ; the one, a chimera, a fancy, an 
ideal, an Eidolon, under the name of Katherine; the 
other, youth, and freshness, and mind, and heart, and a 
living shape of beauty, under the name of Sibyll. Often 
does this double love happen to men ; but when it does, 
alas for the human object! for the shadowy and the 
spiritual one is immortal, — until, indeed, it be possessed ! 

It might be, perhaps, with a resolute desire to conquer 
the new love and confirm the old, that Hastings one 
morning, repaired to the house of the Lady Bonville, for 
her visit to the court had expired. It was a large man- 
sion, without the Lud Gate. 

He found the dame in a comely chamber, seated in the 
sole chair the room contained, to which was attached a 
foot-board that served as a dais, while around her, on low 
stools, sate — some spinning, others broidering — some 
ten or twelve young maidens of good family, sent to re- 
ceive their nurturing under the high-born Katherine * 
while two other and somewhat elder virgins sate a little 
apart, but close under the eye of the lady, practising the 
courtly game of “ prime : ” for the diversion of cards was 
in its zenith of fashion under Edward lY., and even half 
a century later was considered one of the essential accom- 

* And strange as it may seem to modern notions, the highest 
lady who received such pensioners accepted a befitting salary for 
iheir board and education. 


502 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

plishments of a well-educated young lady.* The exceed- 
ing stiffness, the solemn silence of this female circle, but 
little accorded with the mood of the graceful visitor. 
The demoiselles stirred not at his entrance, and Katherine 
quietly motioned him to a seat at some distance. 

“By your leave, fair lady,” said Hastings, “I rebel 
against so distant an exile from such sweet company ; ” 
and he moved the tabouret close to the formidable chair 
of the presiding chieftainess. 

Katherine smiled faintly, but not in displeasure. 

“ So gay a presence,” she said, “ must, I fear me, a 
little disturb these learners.” 

Hastings glanced at the prim deraureness written on 
each blooming visage, and replied — 

“You wrong their ardor in such noble studies. I 
would wager that nothing less than my entering your 
bower on horse-back, with helm on head and lance in 
rest, could provoke even a smile from one pair of the 
twenty rosy lips round which, methinks, I behold Cupido 
hovering in vain ! ” 

The Baroness bent her stately brows, and the twenty 
rosy lips were all tightly pursed up, to prevent the inde- 

* So the Princess Margaret, daughter of Henry VII., at the age 
of fourteen, exhibits her skill, in prime or trump, to her betrothed 
husband, James IV. of Scotland ; so, among the womanly arts of 
the unhappy Katherine of Arragon, it is mentioned that she could 
play at “ cardis and dj^ce.” (See Strutt’s “ Games and Pastimes,” 
Hone’s edition, p. 327.) The legislature was very anxious to keep 
these games sacred to the aristocracy, and very wroth with ’pren- 
tices and the vulgar for imitating the ruinous amusements of their 
betters. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


503 


corous exhibition which the wicked courtier had provoked. 
But it would not do : one and all the twenty lips broke 
into a smile — but a smile so tortured, constrained, and 
nipped in the bud, that it only gave an expression of pain 
to the features it was forbidden to enliven. 

“And what brings the Lord Hastings hither asked 
the baroness in a formal tone. 

“ Can you never allow, for motive, the desire of pleas- 
ure, fair dame ? ” 

That peculiar and exquisite blush, which at moments 
changed the whole physiognomy of Katherine, flitted 
across her smooth cheek, and vanished. She said, 
gravely — 

“ So much do I allow it in you, my lord, that hence 
my question.” 

“ Katherine ! ” exclaimed Hastings, in a voice of tender 
reproach, and attempting to seize her hand, forgetful of 
all other presence save that to which the blush, that spoke 
of old, gave back the ancient charm. 

Katherine cast a hurried and startled glance over the 
maiden group, and her eye detected on the automaton 
faces one common expression of surprise. Humbled and 
deeply displeased, she rose from the awful chair, and then, 
as suddenly reseating herself, she said, with a voice and 
lip of the most cutting irony, “My lord chamberlain is, 
it seems, so habituated to lackey his king amidst the 
goldsmiths and grocers, that he forgets the form of lan- 
guage and respect of bearing which a noblewoman of re- 
pute is accustomed to consider seemly.” 


504 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


Hastings bit his lip, and his falcon eye shot indignant 
fire. “ Pardon, my Lady of Bonville and Harrington, I 
did indeed forget what reasons the dame of so wise and 
so renowned a lord hath to feel pride in the titles she 
hath won. But I see that my visit hath chanced out of 
season. My business, in truth, was rather with my lord, 
whose counsel in peace is as famous as his truncheon in 
war I ” 

“ It is enough,” replied Katherine, with a dignity that 
rebuked the taunt, “ that Lord Bonvilie has the name of 
an honest man, — who never rose at court.” 

“Woman, without one soft woman-feeling I” muttered 
Hastings, between his ground teeth, as he approached the 
lady and made his profound obeisance. The words were 
intended only for Katherine’s ear, and they reached it. 
Her bosom swelled beneath the brocaded gorget, and 
when the door closed on Hastings, she pressed her hands 
convulsively together, and her dark eyes were raised up- 
ward. 

“ My child, thou art entangling thy skein,” said the 
Lady of Bonville, as she passed one of the maidens to- 
wards the casement, which she opened, — “ The air to-day 
weighs heavily I ” 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


505 


CHAPTER YI. 

Joy for Adam, and Hope for Sibyll — and popular Friar Bungeyi 

Leaping on his palfrey, Hastings rode back to the 
Tower — dismounted at the gate — passed on to the little 
postern in the inner court, — and paused not till he was 
in Warner’s room. 

“ How now, friend Adam ? Thou art idle.” 

“Lord Hastings, I am ill.” 

“ And thy child not with thee ? ” 

“ She is gone to her grace the duchess, to pray her to 
grant me leave to go home, and waste no more life on 
making gold.” 

“Home! Go hence I We cannot hear it! The 
duchess must not grant it. I will not suffer the king to 
lose so learned a philosopher.” 

“ Then pray the king to let the philosopher achieve 
that which is in the power of labor.” He pointed to the 
Eureka. “Let me be heard in the king’s council, and 
prove to sufficing judges what this iron can do for Eng- 
land.” 

“ Is that all ? So be it. I will speak to his highness 
forthwith. But promise that thou wilt think no more of 
leaving the king’s palace.” 

“ Oh, no, no I If I may enter again into mine own 

I. —43 


506 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


palace — mine own royalty of craft and hope — the court 
or the dungeon is all one to me ! ’’ 

“Father,” said Sibyll, entering, “be comforted. The 

duchess forbids thy departure, but we will yet flee ” 

She stopped short as she saw Hastings. He approached 
her timidly, and with so repentant, so earnest a respect 
in his mien and gesture, that she had not the heart to 
draw back the fair hand he lifted to his lips. 

“No, flee not, sweet donzell ; leave not the desert 
court, without the flower and the laurel, the beauty and 
the wisdom, that scent the hour, and foretype eternity. 
I have conferred with thy father — I will obtain his prayer 
from the king. His mind shall be free to follow its own 
impulse, and thou — (he whispered) — pardon — pardon an 
offence of too much love. Never shall it wound again.” 

Her eyes, swimming with delicious tears, were fixed 
upon the floor. Poor child ! with so much love, how 
could she cherish anger ? With so much purity, how 
distrust herself? And while, at least, he spoke, the 
dangerous lover was sincere. So from that hour peace 
was renewed between Sibyll and Lord Hastings. — Fatal 
peace ! alas for the girl who loves— and has no mother ! 

True to his word, the courtier braved the displeasure 
of the Duchess of Bedford, in inducing the king to con- 
sider the expediency of permitting Adam to relinquish 
alchemy, and repair his model. Edward summoned a 
deputation from the London merchants and traders, before 
whom Adam appeared and explained his device. But 
these practical men at first ridiculed the notion as a 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

madman’s fancy, and it required all the art of Hastings 
to overcome their contempt, and appeal to tne native 
acuteness of the king. Edward, however, was only 
caught by Adam’s incidental allusions to the application 
of his principle to ships. The merchant-king suddenly 
roused himself to attention, when it was promised to him 
that his galleys could cross the seas without sail, and 
against wind and tide. 

“By St. George I’’ said he then, “let the honest man 
have his whim. Mend thy model, and every saint in the 
calendar speed thee ! Master Heyford, tell thy comely 
wife that I and Hastings will sup with her to-morrow, 
for her hippocras is a rare dainty. Good day to you, 
worshipful my masters. Hastings, come hither — enough 
of these trifles — I must confer with thee on matters 
really pressing — this damnable marriage of gentle 
Georgie’s ! ” 

And now Adam Warner was restored to his native 
element of thought ; now the crucible was at rest, and 
the Eureka began to rise from its ruins. He knew not 
the hate that he had acquired, in the permission he had 
gained ; for the London deputies, on their return home, 
talked of nothing else for a whole week, but the favor 
the king had shown to a strange man, half-maniac, half- 
conjuror, who had undertaken to devise a something 
which would throw all the artisans and journeymen out 
of work I From merchant to mechanic travelled the 
news, and many an honest man cursed the great scholar, 
as he looked at his young children, and wished to have 


50S THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

one good blow at the head that was hatching such devil- 
ish malice against the poor ! The name of Adam Warner 
became a by- word of scorn and horror. Nothing less 
than the deep ditch and strong walls of the Tower could 
have saved him from the popular indignation ; and these 
prejudices were skilfully fed by the jealous enmity of his 
fellow-student, the terrible Friar Bungey. This man, 
though in all matters of true learning and science worthy 
the utmost contempt Adam could heap upon him, was by 
no means of despicable abilities in the arts of imposing 
upon men. In his youth he had been an itinerant 
mountebank, or, as it was called, tregetour. He knew 
well all the curious tricks of juggling that, then, amazed 
the vulgar, and, we fear, are lost to the craft of our 
modern necromancers. He could clothe a wall with 
seeming vines, that vanished as you approached ; he 
could conjure up in his quiet cell the likeness of a castle 
manned with soldiers, or a forest tenanted by deer.* 
Besides these illusions, probably produced by more pow- 
erful magic lanterns than are now used, the friar had 
stumbled upon the wondrous effects of animal magnetism, 
which was then unconsciously practised by the alchemists 
and cultivators of white or sacred magic. He was an 
adept in the craft of fortune-telling; and his intimate 
acquaintance with all noted characters in the metropolis, 

* See Chaucer, “ House of Time,” Book iii. ; also the account 
given by Baptista Porta, of his own Magical Delusions, of which 

an extract may be seen in the “Curiosities of Literature,” Art 

Dreams at the Dawn of Philosophy. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


50S 


their previous history, and present circumstances, enabled 
his natural shrewdness to hit the mark, at least now and 
then, in his oracular predictions. He had taken, for 
safety and for bread, the friar’s robes, and had long en- 
joyed the confidence of the Duchess of Bedford, the 
traditional descendant of the serpent-witch, Melusina. 
Moreover, and in this the friar especially valued himself, 
Bungey had, in the course of his hardy, vagrant early 
life, studied, as shepherds and mariners do now, the signs 
of the weather ; and as weather-glasses were then un- 
known, nothing could be more convenient to the royal 
planners of a summer chase or a hawking company, than 
the neighborhood of a skilful predictor of storm and 
sunshine. In fact, there was no part in the lore of magic 
which the popular seers found so useful and studied so 
much as that which enabled them to prognosticate the 
humors of the sky, at a period when the lives of all men 
were principally spent in the open air. 

The fame of Friar Bungey had travelled much farther 
than the repute of Adam Warner : it was known in the 
distant provinces ; and many a northern peasant grew 
pale as he related to his gaping listeners the tales he had 
heard of the Duchess Jacquetta’s dread magician. 

And yet, though the friar was an atrocious knave, and 
a ludicrous impostor, on the whole he was by no means 
unpopular, especially in the metropolis, for he was natu- 
rally a jolly, social fellow: he often ventured boldly forth 
into the different hostelries and reunions of the populace, 
and enjoyed the admiration he there excited, and pocketed 
43 ♦ 


510 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


the groats he there collected. He had no pride — none 
in the least, this Friar Bungey ! — and was as affable as 
a magician could be to the meanest mechanic who crossed 
his broad horn palm. A vulgar man is never unpopular 
with the vulgar. Moreover, the friar, who was a very 
cunning person, wished to keep well with the mob : he 
was fond of his own impudent, cheating, burly carcase, 
and had the prudence to foresee that a time might come 
when his royal patrons might forsake him, and a mob 
might be a terrible monster to meet in his path ; there- 
fore he always affected to love the poor, often told their 
fortunes gratis, now and then gave them something to 
drink, and was esteemed a man exceedingly good-natured, 
because he did not always have the devil at his back. 

Now Friar Bungey had, naturally enough, evinced, 
from the first, a great distaste and jealousy of Adam 
W arner ; but occasionally profiting by the science of the 
latter, he suffered his resentment to sleep latent till it was 
roused into fury by learning the express favor shown to 
Adam by the king, and the marvellous results expected 
from his contrivance. His envy, then, forbade all tole- 
rance and mercy ; the world was not large enough tc 
contain two such giants — Bungey and Warner — the 
genius and the quack. To the best of our experience, 
the quacks have the same creed to our own day. He 
vowed deep vengeance upon his associate, and spared no 
arts to foment the popular hatred against him. Friar 
Bungey would have been a great critic in our day ! 

But besides his jealousy, the fat friar had anothe” mo- 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


511 


live for desiring poor Adames destruction; he coveted 
his model 1 True, he despised the model, he jeered the 
model, he abhorred the model ; but, nevertheless, for the 
model, every string in his bowels fondly yearned. He 
believed that if that model were once repaired, and in his 
possession, he could do — what he knew not — but certainly 
all that was wanting to complete his glory, and to bubble 
the public. 

Unconscious of all that was at work against him, Adam 
threw his whole heart and soul into his labor, and, happy 
in his happiness, Sibyll once more smiled gratefully upon 
Hastings, from whom the rapture came. 


CHAPTER YII. 

A Love Scene. 

More than ever chafed against Katherine, Hastings 
surrendered himself, without reserve, to the charm he 
found in the society of Sibyll. Her confidence being 
again restored, again her mind showed itself to advan- 
tage, and the more because her pride was farther roused, 
to assert the equality with rank and gold which she took 
from nature and from God. 

It so often happens that the first love of woman is ac- 
companied with a bashful timidity, which overcomes the 
effort, while it increases the desire, to shine, that the 
anion of love and timidity has been called inseparable, in 


512 


TIIF. LAST OF THE BARONS. 


the hackneyed language of every love-tale. But this is 
no invariable rule, as Shakspeare has shown us in the 
artless Miranda, in the eloquent Juliet, in the frank and 
healthful Rosalind ; — and the love of Sibyll was no com- 
mon girl’s spring-fever of sighs and blushes. It lay in 
the mind, the imagination, the intelligence, as well as in 
the heart and fancy. It was a breeze that stirred from 
the modest leaves of the rose all their divine odor. It 
was impossible but what this strong, fresh, young nature, 
with its free gaiety when happy — its earnest pathos when 
sad — its various faculties of judgment and sentiment, and 
covert play of innocent wit — should not contrast forcibly, 
in the mind of a man who had the want to be amused and 
interested, — with the cold pride of Katherine, the dull 
atmosphere in which her stiff, unbending virtue, breathed 
unintellectual air, and still more with the dressed puppets, 
wdth painted cheeks and barren talk, who filled up the 
common world, under the name of women. 

His feelings for Sibyll, therefore, took a more grave 
and respectful color, and his attentions, if gallant ever, 
were those of a man wooing one whom he would make 
his wife, and studying the qualities in which he was dis- 
posed to intrust his happiness ; and so pure was Sibyll’s 
aifection, that she could have been contented to have 

lived for ever thus — have seen and heard him daily 

have talked but the words of friendship, though with the 
thoughts of love ; for some passions refine themselves 
through the very fire of the imagination into which the 
senses are absorbed, and by the ideal purification elevated 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 513 

up to spirit. Wrapped in the exquisite happiness she 
now enjoyed, Sibyll perceived not, or, if perceiving, 
scarcely heeded that the admirers, who had before fluttered 
round her, gradually dropped off — that the ladies of the 
court, the damsels who shared her light duties, grew dis- 
tant and silent at her approach — that strange looks were 
bent on her — that sometimes when she and Hastifigs 
were seen together, the stern frowned and the godly 
crossed themselves. 

The popular prejudices had reacted on the court. The 
wizard’s daughter was held to share the gifts of her sire, 
and the fascination of beauty was imputed to evil spells. 
Lord Hastings was regarded — especially by all the ladies 
he had once courted and forsaken — ras a man egregiously 
bewitched I 

One day it chanced that Sibyll encountered Hastings 
in the walk that girded the ramparts of the Tower. He 
was pacing musingly, with folded arms, when he raised 
bis eyes and beheld her. 

‘‘And whither go you thus alone, fair mistress ? ” 

“ The duchess bade me seek the queen, who is taking 
the air yonder. My lady has received some tidings she 
would impart to her highness.” 

“ I was thinking of thee, fair damsel, when thy face 
brightened on my musings ; and I was comparing thee to 
others, who dwell in the world’s high places ; and mar- 
velling at the whims of fortune.” 

Sfbyll smiled faintly, and answered, “ Provoke not too 
2 H 


514 THfi LAST OF THE BARONS. 

much the aspiring folly of my nature. Content is better 
than ambition.” 

“ Thou ownest thy ambition ? ” asked Hastings, curb 
ously. 

‘^Ah, sir, who hath it not?” 

“ But, for thy sweet sex, ambition has so narrow and 
cribbed a field.” 

“Not so; for it lives in others. I would say,” con- 
tinued Sibyll, coloring, fearful that she had betrayed her* 
self, “for example, that so long as my father toils for 
fame, I breathe his hope, and am ambitious for his 
honor. ” 

“And so, if thou wert wedded to one worthy of thee, 
in his ambition thou wouldst soar and dare ? ” 

“Perhaps,” answered Sibyll, coyly. 

“ But if thou wert wedded to sorrow, and poverty, and 
troublous care, thine ambition, thus struck dead, would 
of consequence strike dead thy love ? ” 

“ Nay, noble lord, nay — canst thou so wrong woman- 
hood in me unworthy ? for surely true ambition lives not 
only in the goods of fortune. Is there no nobler ambi- 
tion than that of the vanity ? Is there no ambition of 
the heart? — an ambition to console, to cheer the griefs 
of those who love and trust us ? — an ambition to build a 
happiness out of the reach of fate ? — an ambition to 
soothe some high soul, in its strife with a mean world — 
to lull to sleep its pain, to smile to serenity its cares ? 
Oh, methinks, a woman’s true ambition would rise the 
bravest when, in the very sight of death itself, the voice 


THE LAST OP THE BATONS. 515 

of him in whom her glory had dwelt through life should 
say, ‘ Thou fearest not to walk to the grave and to heaven 
by my side 1 ’ ” 

Sweet and thrilling were the tones in which these 
v^ords were said — lofty e-nd solemn the upward and tear- 
ful look with which they closed. 

And the answer struck home to the native and original 
heroism of the listener’s nature, before debased into the 
cynic sourness of worldly wisdom. Never had Katherine 
herself more forcibly recalled to Hastings the pure and 
virgin glory of his youth. 

“ Oh, Sibyll I ” be exclaimed, passionately, and yield- 
ing to the impulse of the moment — “ oh^ that /or me, 
as to me, such high words were said ! Oh, that all the 
triumphs of a life men call prosperous were excelled by 
the one triumph of waking such an ambition in such a 
heart I ” 

Sibyll stood before him transformed — pale, trembling, 
mute — and Hastings, clasping her hand and covering it 
with kisses, said — 

“ Dare I arede thy silence ? Sibyll, thou lovest me I — 
Oh, Sibyll, speak I ” 

With a convulsive effort, the girl’s lips moved, then 
closed, then moved again, into low and broken words — 

“ Why this — why this ? Thou hadst promised not to 
— not to ” 

“Not to insult thee by unworthy vows I Nor do 1 1 
But as my voifey He paused abruptly, alarmed at his 
own impetuous words, and scared by the phantom of the 


516 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

world that rose like a bodily thing before the generous 
impulse, and grinned in scorn of his folly. 

But Sibyll heard only that one holy word of Wife, and 
so sudden and so great was the transport it called forth, 
that her senses grew faint and dizzy, and she would have 
fallen to the earth but for the arms that circled her, and 
the' breast upon which, now, the virgin might veil the 
blush that did not speak of shame. 

With various feelings, both were a moment silent. But, 
oh, that moment ! what centuries of bliss were crowded 
into it for the nobler and fairer, nature ! 

At last, gently releasing herself, she put her hands 
before her eyes, as if to convince herself she was awake, 
and then, turning her lovely face full upon the wooer, 
Sibyll said, ingenuously — 

“Oh, my lord — oh, Hastings I if thy calmer reason 
repent not these words — if thou canst approve in me 
what thou didst admire in Elizabeth the queen — if thou 
canst raise one who has no dower but her heart, to the 
state of thy wife and partner — by this hand, which I 
place fearlessly in thine, I pledge to thee such a love as 
minstrel hath never sung. No I ’’ she continued, drawing 
loftily up her light stature — “no, thou shalt not find me 
unworthy of thy name — mighty though it is, mightier 
though it shall be 1 I have a mind that can share thine 
objects, I have pride that can exult in thy power, courage 
to partake thy dangers, and devotion — ” she hesitated, 
with tlie most charming blush — “but of //?a/, sweet lord, 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


517 


thou shalt judge hereafter! This is my dowry — it is 
all ! ” 

“And all I ask or covet,’* said Hastings. But his 
cheek had lost its first passionate glow. Lord of many 
a broad land and barony, victorious captain in many a 
foughten field, wise statesman in many a thoughtful 
stratagem, high in his king’s favor, and linked with a 
nation’s history — William de Hastings at that hour was 
as far below, as earth is to heaven, the poor maiden 
wdiom he already repented to have so honored, and whose 
sublime answer woke no echo from his heart. 

Fortunately, as he deemed it, at that very instant he 
heard many steps rapidly approaching, and his own name 
called aloud by the voice of the king’s body squire. 

“ Hark ! Edward summons me,” he said, with a feeling 
of reprieve. “ Farewell, dear Sibyll, farewell for a brief 
while — we shall meet anon.” 

At this time, they were standing in that part of the 
rampart-walk which is now backed by the barracks of a 
modern soldiery, and before which, on the other side of 
the moat, lay a space that had seemed solitary and de- 
serted ; but, as Hastings, in speaking his adieu, hurriedly 
■pressed his lips on Sibyll’s forehead — from a tavern with- 
out the fortress, and opposite the spot on which they 
stood, suddenly sallied a disorderly troop of half-drunken 
soldiers, with a gang of the wretched women that always 
continue the classic association of a false Yenus with a 
brutal Mars ; and the last words of Hastings were scarcely 

I. —44 


spoken, before a loud laugh startled both himself and 
Sibyll, and a shudder came over her when she beheld the 
tinsel robes of the tymbesteres glittering in the sun, and 
heard their leader sing, as she darted from the arms of a 
reeling soldier: — 

death to the dove 
Is the falcon’s love. — - 
Oh ! sharp is the kiss of the falcon’s beak ! ’’ 


END OP FIRST VOLUME. 







t 


K 


THE LAST OE THE BAllONS 

VOL. II. 







i 


'a 


A • 


f 


t 


.1 



THE 


LAST OF THE BAKONS. 

BOOK SEVENTH. 

THE POPULAR REBELLION 


. CHAPTER I. 

The White Lion of Marcn shakes his Mane. 

“And what news ? ” asked Hastings, as he found him- 
self amidst the king’s squires ; while yet was heard the 
laugh of the tymbesteres, and yet, gliding through the 
trees, might be seen the retreating form of Sibyll. 

“ My lord, the king needs you instantly. A courier 
has just arrived from the North. The Lords St. John, 
Rivers, He Fulke, and Scales, are already with his high- 
ness.” 

“Where?” 

“In the great council chamber.” 

To that memorable room,* in the White Tower, in 

* It was from this room that Hastings was hurried to execution, 
June 18, 1488. 

1 * ( S ) 


6 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


which the visitor, on entrance, is first reminded of the 
name and fate of Hastings, strode the unprophetic lord. 

He found Edward not reclining on cushions and car- 
pets — not woman-like in loose robes — not with his lazy 
smile upon his sleek beauty. The king had doffed his 
gown, and stood erect in the tight tunic, which gave in 
full perfection the splendid proportions of a frame un- 
surpassed in activity and strength. Before him, on the 
long table, lay two or three open letters < — beside the 
dagger with which Edwardj had cut the silk that bound 
them. Around him gravely sate Lord Rivers, Anthony 
Woodville, Lord St. John, Raoul de Fulke, the young 
and valiant D’Eyncourt, and many other of the principal 
lords. Hastings saw at once that something of pith and 
moment had occurred ; and by the fire in the king’s eye, 
the dilation of his nostril, the cheerful and almost joyous 
pride of his mien and brow, the experienced courtier read 
the signs of War. 

“Welcome, brave Hastings,” said Edward, in a voice 
wholly changed from its wonted soft affectation — loud, 
clear, and thrilling as it went through the marrow and 

heart of all who heard its stirring and trumpet accent 

“ Welcome now to the field as ever to the banquet ! We 
have news from the North, that bid us brace on the bur- 
gonot, and buckle-to the brand — a revolt that requires a 
king’s arm to quell. In Yorkshire, fifteen thousand men 
are in arms, under a leader they call Robin of Redesdale 
— the pretext, a thrave of corn demanded by the Hospital 
of St. Leonard’s — the true design that of treason to our 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. T 

realm. At the same time, we hear from our brother of 
Gloucester, now on the border, that the Scotch have 
lifted the Lancaster Rose. There is peril if these two 
armies meet — no time to lose — they are saddling our 
war-steeds — we hasten to the van of our royal force. 
We shall have warm work, my lords. But who is worthy 
of a throne that cannot guard it 1 ” 

“ This is sad tidings indeed, sire,” said Hastings, 
gravely. 

“ Sad I Say it not, Hastings I War is the chase of 
kings I Sir Raoul de Fulke ! — why lookest thou brood- 
ing and sorrowful ? ” 

“ Sire, I but thought that had Earl Warwick been in 
England, this ” 

“Hal” interrupted Edward, haughtily and hastily — 
“and is Warwick the sun of heaven that no cloud can 
darken where his face may shine ? The rebels shall need 
no foe, my realm no regent, while I, the heir of the 
Plantagenets, have the sword for one, the sceptre for 
the other. We depart this evening ere the sun be set.” 

“My liege,” said the Lord St. John, gravely — “on 
what forces do you count to meet so formidable an 
array ? ” 

“All England, Lord of St. John!” 

“ Alack I my liege, may you not deceive yourself 1 But 
in this crisis, it is right that your leal and trusty subjects 
should speak out and plainly. It seems that these insur- 
gents clamor not against yourself, but against the queen’s 
relations — yes, my Lord Rivers, against you and your 


8 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


house, and I fear me that the hearts of England are with 
them here.” 

“ It is true, sire,” put in Raoul de Fulke, boldly — “and 
if these new men are to head your armies, the warriors 
of Towton will stand aloof — Raoul de Fulke serves no 
Woodville’s banner. Frown not. Lord de Scales ! it is 
the griping avarice of you and yours that has brought 
this evil on the king. For you the commons have been 
pillaged — for you the daughters of our peers have been 
forced into monstrous marriages, at war with birth and 
with nature herself. For you, the princely Warwick, 
near to the throne in blood, and front and pillar of our 
time-honored order of seigneur and of knight, has been 
thrust from our suzerain’s favor. And if now ye are to 
march at the van of war — you to be avengers of the 
strife of which ye are the cause — I say that the soldiers 
will lack heart, and the provinces ye pass through will be 
the country of a foe I ” 

“ Yain man !” began Anthony Woodville, when Hast- 
ings laid his hand on his arm, while Edward, amazed at 
this outburst from two of the supporters on whom he 
principally counted, had the prudence to suppress his 
resentment — and remained silent, but with the aspect of 
one resolved to command obedience, when he once deemed 
it right to interfere. 

“Hold, Sir Anthony!” said Hastings, who, the mo- 
ment he found himself with men, woke to all the manly 
spirit and profound wisdom tliat had rendered his name 
illustrious — “ hold, and let me have the word; my Lords 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


9 


St. John and De Fulke, your charges are more against 
me than against these gentlemen, for 7 am a new man — 
a squire by birth — and proud to derive mine honors from 
the same origin as all true nobility — I mean the grace 
of a noble liege, and the happy fortune of a soldier’s 
sword. It may be,” (and here the artful favorite, the 
most beloved of the whole court, inclined himself meekly) 
— “it may be that I have not borne those honors so 
mildly as to disarm blame. In the war to be, let me 
atone. My liege, hear your servant : give me no com- 
mand — let me be a simple soldier, fighting by your side. 
My example who will not follow ? — proud to ride but as 
a man of arms along the track which the sword of his 
sovereign shall cut through the ranks of battle ? Not 
you, Lord de Scales, redoubtable and invincible with 
lance and axe ; let us new men soothe envy by our deeds ; 
and you, Lords St.John and De Fulke — you shall teach 
us how your fathers led warriors who did not fight more 
gallantly than we will. And when rebellion is at rest — 
when we meet again in our suzerain’s hall — accuse us 
new men, if you can find us faulty, and we will answer 
you as we best may ! ” 

This address, which could have come from no man 
with such effect as from Hastings, touched all present. 
And though the Woodvilles, father and son, saw in it 
much to gall their pride, and half believed it a snare for 
their humiliation, they made no opposition. Raoul de 
Fulke, ever generous as fiery, stretched forth his hand, 
and said — 


10 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


“Lord Hastings, you have spoken well. Be it as the 
king wills.” 

“My loids,” returned Edward, gaily, “my will is that 
ye be friends while a foe is in the field. Hasten, then, I 
beseech you, one and all, to raise your vassals, and join 
otir standard at Fotheringay. I Will find ye posts that 
shall content the bravest.” 

The king made a sign to break up the conference, and, 
dismissing even the Woodvilles, was left alone with 
Hastings. 

“ Thou hast served me at need. Will,” said the king. 
“ But I shall remember ” (and his eye flashed a tiger’s 
fire) “ the mouthing of those mock-pieces of the lords at 
Runnymede. I am no John, to be bearded by my 
vassals. Enough of them now. Think you Warwick 
can have abetted this revolt ? ” 

“ A revolt of peasants and yeomen ! No, sire. If he 
did so, farewell for ever to the love the barons bear him.” 

“Urn I and yet Montagu, whom I dismissed ten days 
since to the Borders, hearing of disaffection, hath done 
nought to check it. But come what may, his must be a 
bold lance that shivers against a king’s mail. And now 
one kiss of my Lady Bessee, one cup of the bright canary, 
and then God and St. George for the White Rose I ” 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


11 


CHAPTER II. 

(The Camp at Olney. 

It was some weeks after the citizens of London had 
seen their gallant king, at the head of such forces as 
were collected in haste in the metropolis, depart from 
their walls to the encounter of the rebels. Surprising 
and disastrous had been the tidings in the interim. At 
first, indeed, there were hopes that the insurrection had 
been put down by Montagu, who had defeated the troops 
of Robin of Redesdale, near the city of York, and was 
said to have beheaded their leader. But the spirit of 
discontent was only fanned by an adverse wind. The 
popular hatred to the Woodvilles was so great, that in 
proportion as Edward advanced to the scene of action, 
the country rose in arms as Raoul de Fulke had pre- 
dicted. Leaders of lordly birth now headed the rebellion ; 
the sons of the Lords Latimer and Fitzhugh, (near kins- 
men of the House of Nevile), lent their names to the 
cause; and Sir John Coniers, an experienced soldier, 
whose claims had been disregarded by Edward, gave to 
the insurgents the aid of a formidable capacity for war. 
in every mouth was the story of the Duchess of Bed- 
ford’s witchcraft; and the waxen figure of the earl did 
more to rouse the people, than perhaps the earl himself 


12 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

could have done in person.* As yet, however, the lan- 
guage of the insurgents was tempered with all personal 
respect to the king ; they declared in their manifestoes 
that they desired only the banishment of the Woodvilles, 
and the recall of Warwick, whose name they used un- 
scrupulously, and whom they declared they were on their 
way to meet. As soon as it was known that the kinsmen 
of the beloved earl were in the revolt, and naturally sup- 
posed that the earl himself must countenance the enter- 
prise, the tumultuous camp swelled every hour, while 
knight after knight, veteran after veteran, abandoned the 
royal standard. The Lord d’Eyncourt (one of the few 
lords of the highest birth and greatest following, over 
whom the Neviles had no influence, and who bore the 
Woodvilles no grudge) had, in his way to Lincolnshire, 
where his personal aid was necessary to rouse his vassals, 
infected by the common sedition, — been attacked and 
wounded by a body of marauders, and thus Edward’s 
camp lost one of its greatest leaders. Fierce dispute 
broke out in the king’s councils ; and, when the witch 
Jacquetta’s practices against the earl travelled from the 
hostile into the royal camp, Raoul de Fulke, St. John, 
and others, seized with pious horror, positively declared 
they would throw down their arms and retire to their 
castles, unless the Woodvilles were dismissed from the 

* See “ Parliamentary Rolls,” vi. 232, for the accusations of 
witchcraft, and the fabrication of a necromantic image of Lord 
Warwick, circulated against the Duchess of Bedford. She herself 
quotes, and complains of. them. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


13 


camp, and the Earl of Warwick was recalled to England. 
To the first demand the king was constrained to yield ; 
with the second he temporized. He marched from 
Fotheringay to Newark ; but the signs of disaffection, 
though they could not dismay him as a soldier, altered 
his plans as a captain of singular military acuteness ; ho 
fell back on Nottingham, and dispatched, with his own 
hands, letters to Clarence, the Archbishop of York, and 
Warwick. To the last he wrote touchingly. “We do 
not believe” (said the letter), “that ye should be of any 
such disposition towards us, as the rumor here runneth, 
considering the trust and affection we bear you — and 
cousin, ne think ye shall be to us welcome.”* But ere 
these letters reached their destination, tlie crown seemed 
well-nigh lost. At Edgecote, the Earl of Pembroke was 
defeated and slain, and five thousand royalists were left 
on the field. Earl Rivers, and his son. Sir John Wood- 
ville,^ who, in obedience to the royal order, had retired 
to the earl’s country seat of Grafton, were taken prisoners, 
and beheaded by the vengeance of the insurgents. The 

* “ Paston Letters,” ccxcviii. (Knight’s edition), vol. ii., p. 59. 
See also “ Lingard,” vol, iii., p, 522 (4to edition), note 43, for the 
proper date to be assigned to Edward’s letter to Warwick, &c. 

f This Sir John Woodville was the most obnoxious of the queen’s 
brothers, and infamous for the avarice which had led him to marry 
the old Duchess of Norfolk, an act which, according to the old 
laws of chivalry, would have disabled him from entering the lists 
of knighthood, for the ancient code disqualified and degraded any 
knight who should marry an old woman for her money I Lord 
Rivers was the more odious to the people at the time of the insur- 
rection, because, in his capacity of treasurer, he had lately tampered 
with the coin and circulation. 

II.— 2 


2i 


14 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

same lamentable fate befell the Lord Stafford, on whom 
Edward relied as one of his most puissant leaders ; and 
London heard with dismay, that the king, with but a 
handful of troops, and those lukewarm and disaffected, 
was begirt on all sides by hostile and marching thousands. 

From Nottingham, however, Edward made, good his 
retreat to a village called Olney, which chanced at that 
time to be partially fortified with a wall and a strong 
gate. Here the rebels pursued him; and Edward, hear- 
ing that Sir Anthony Woodville, who conceived that the 
fate of his father and brother eaiicelled all motive for 
longer absence from the contest, was busy in collecting a 
force in the neighborhood of Coventry, while other as- 
sistance might be daily expected from London, strength- 
ened the fortifications as well as the time would permit, 
and awaited the assault of the insurgents. 

It was at this crisis, and while throughout all England 
reigned terror and commotion — that one day, towards 
the end of July, a small troop of horsemen were seen 
riding rapidly towards the neighborhood of Olney. As 
the village came in view of the cavalcade^ with the spire 
of its church, and its grey stone gateway, so, also, they 
beheld, on the pastures that stretched around wide and 
far, a moving forest of pikes and plumes. 

“ Holy Mother ! ” said one of the foremost riders, 
“ Good knight and strong man though Edward be, it 
were sharp work to cut his way from that hamlet through 
yonder fields ! Brother, we were more welcome, had we 
brought more bills and bows at our backs I 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


15 


‘‘Archbishop,” answered the stately personage thus 
addressed, “ we bring what alone raises armies and dis- 
bands them — a name that a People honors I From the 
moment the White Bear is seen on yonder archway, side 
by side with the king’s banner — that army will vanish as 
smoke before the wind.” 

“Heaven grant it, Warwick I” said the Duke of Cla- 
rence j “ for, though Edward hath used us sorely, it chafes 
me as Plantagenet and as prince, to see how peasants 
and varlets can hem round a king.” 

“ Peasants and varlets are pawns on the chess-board, 
cousin George,” said the prelate, “ and knight and bishop 
find them mighty useful, when pushing forward to an at- 
tack. Now knight and bishop appear themselves and 
take up the game — Warwick,” added the prelate, in a 
whisper, unheard by Clarence, “ forget not, while appeas- 
ing rebellion, that the king is in your power.” 

“For shame, George ! I think not now of the unkind 
king ; I think only of the brave boy I dandled on my 
knee, and whose sword I girded on at Towton. How 
his lion heart must chafe, condemned to see a foe whom 
his skill as captain tells him it were madness to con- 
front I ” 

“Ay, Richard Nevile ! — ay,” said the prelate, with a 
slight sneer, “ play the Paladin, and become the dupe — 
release the prince, and betray the people I ” 

“No I I can be true to both. Tush I brother, your 
craft is slight to the plain wisdom of bold honesty. You 
slacken your steeds, sirs : on — on-^see, the march of the 


16 IHE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

rebels I On, for an Edward and a Warwick 1 ” and spur- 
ring to full speed, the little company arrived at the gates. 
The loud bugle of the new-comers was answered by the 
cheerful note of the joyous warder, — while dark, slow, 
and solemn, over the meadows, crept on the mighty clond 
of the rebel army. 

“We have forestalled the insurgents!” said the earl, 
throwing himself from his black steed. “Marmaduke 
Nevile, advance our banner ; heralds, announce the Duke 
of Clarence, the Archbishop of York, and the Earl of 
Salisbury and Warwick.” 

Through the anxious town, along the crowded walls 
and house-tops, into the hall of an old mansion (that then 
adjoined the church), where the king, in complete armor, 
stood at bay, with stubborn and disaffected officers, rolled 
the thunder-cry — “A Warwick — a Warwick 1 all saved I 
a Warwick I ” 

Sharply, as he heard the clamor, the king turned upon 
his startled council. “ Lords and captains I ” said he, 
with that inexpressible majesty which he could command 
in his happier hours, “ God and our Patron Saint have 
sent us at least one man who has the heart to fight fifty 
times the odds of yon miscreant rabble, by his king’s side, 
and for the honor of loyalty and knighthood I ” 

“And who says, sire,” answered Raoul de Fulke, “that 
we your lords and captains would not risk blood and life 
for our king and our knighthood in a just cause ? But 
we will not butcher our countrymen for echoing our own 
complaint, and praying your grace that a grasping and 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


17 


ambitious family which you have raised to power may no 
longer degrade your nobles and oppress your commons. 
We shall see if the Earl of Warwick blame us or ap 
prove.” 

“And I answer,” said Edward, loftily, “that whether 
Warwick approve or blame, come as friend or foe, I will 
sooner ride alone through yonder archway, and carve out 
a soldier’s grave amongst the ranks of rebellious war, 
than be the puppet of my subjects, and serve their will 
by compulsion. Free am I — free ever will I be, while 
the crown of the Plantagenet is mine, to raise those whom 
I love, to defy the threats of those sworn to obey me. 
And were I but Earl of March, instead of king of Eng- 
land, this hall should have swum with the blood of those 
who have insulted the friends of my youth — the wife of 
my bosom. Off, Hastings I — I need no mediator with 
my servants. Nor here, nor anywhere in broad England, 
have I my equal, and the king forgives or scorns — con- 
strue it as ye will, my lords — what the simple gentleman 
would avenge.” 

It were in vain to describe the sensation that this speech 
])roduced. There is ever something in courage and in 
will that awes numbers, though brave themselves. And 
what with the unquestioned valor of Edward — what with 
the effect of his splendid person, towering above all pre- 
sent by the head, and moving lightly, with each impulse, 
through the mass of a mail that few there could have 
borne unsinking, this assertion of absolute power in the 
midst of mutiny — an army marching to the gatoa — im 
2 * B 


18 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

posed an unwilling reverence and sullen silence, mixed 
with anger, that, while it chafed, admired. They who, in 
peace, had despised the voluptuous monarch, feasting in 
his palace, and reclining on the lap of harlot-beauty, felt 
that in war, all Mars seemed living in his person. Then, 
indeed, he was a king; and had the foe, now darkening 
the landscape, been the noblest chivalry of France, not a 
man there but had died for a smile from that haughty 
lip. But the barons were knit heart in heart with the 
popular outbreak, and to put down the revolt seemed to 
them but to raise the Woodvilles. The silence was still 
unbroken, save where the persuasive whisper of Lord 
Hastings might be faintly heard in remonstrance with 
the more powerful or the more stubborn of the chiefs — 
when the tread of steps resounded without, and, unarmed, 
bareheaded, the only form in Christendom grander and 
statelier than the king’s, strode into the hall. 

Edward, as yet unaware what course Warwick would 
pursue, and half doubtful whether a revolt that had bor- 
rowed his name, and was led by his kinsmen, might not 
originate in his consent, surrounded by those to whom 
the earl was especially dear, and aware that if Warwick 
were against him all was lost, still relaxed not the dignity 
of his mien ; and leaning on his large two-handed sword, 
with such inward resolves as brave kings and gallant 
gentlemen form, if the worst should befall, he watched 
the majestic strides of his great kinsman, and said as 
the earl approached, and the mutinous captains louted 
low — 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


19 


“ Cousin, you are welcome ! for truly do I know that 
when you have aught whereof to complain, you take not 
the moment of danger and disaster. And whatever has 
chanced to alienate your heart from me, the sound of the 
rebel’s trumpet chases all difference, and marries your 
faith to mine.” 

“ Oh, Edward, my king, why did you so misjudge me 
in the prosperous hour !” said Warwick, simply, but with 
affecting earnestness ; “ since in the adverse hour you 
arede me well?” 

As he spoke, he bowed his head, and, bending his knee, 
kissed the hand held out to him. 

Edward’s face grew radiant, and raising the earl, he 
glanced proudly at the barons who stood round, sur- 
prised and mute. 

“Yes, ray lords and sirs, see — it is not the Earl of 
Warwick, next to our royal brethren, the nearest subject 
to the throne, who would desert me in the day of peril !” 

“Nor do we, sire,” retorted Raoul de Fulke ; “you 
wrong us before our mighty comrade if you so misthink 
us. We will fight for the king, but not for the queen’s 
kindred ; and this alone brings on us your anger.” 

“ The gates shall be opened to ye. Go ! Warwick and 
I are men enough for the rabble yonder.” 

The earl’s quick eye, and profound experience of his 
time, saw at once the dissension and its causes. Nor, 
however generous, was he willing to forego the present 
occasion for permanently destroying an influence which 
he knew hostile to himself and hurtful to the realm 


20 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


His was not the generosity of a boy, but of a statesmaji. 
Accordingly, as Raoul de Fulke spoke, he took up the 
word. 

“My liege, we have yet an hour good ere the foe can 
reach the gates. Your brother and mine accompany me. 
See, they enter I Please you, a few minutes to confer 
with them ; and suffer me, meanwhile, to reason with 
these noble captains.’’ 

Edward paused ; but before the open brow of the earl 
fled w'hatever suspicion might have crossed the king’s 
mind. 

“ Be it so, cousin ; but remember this — to councillors 
who can menace me with desertion in such an hour, I 
concede nothing.” 

Turning hastily away, he met Clarence and the prelate 
midway in the hall, threw his arm caressingly over his 
brother’s shoulder, and, taking the archbishop by the 
hand, walked with them towards the battlements. 

“Well, my friends,” said Warwick, “and what would 
you of the king ? ” 

“The dismissal of all the Woodvilles, except the queen 
— the revocation of the grants and lands accorded to 
them, to the despoiling the ancient nobles — and, but for 
your presence, we had demanded your recall.” 

“And, failing these, what your resolve ? ” 

“To depart, and leave Edward to his fate. These 
granted, we doubt little but that the insurgents will dis- 
band. These not granted, we but waste our lives against 
a multitude whose cause we must approve.” 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


21 


“The cause ! But ye know not the real cause,” an- 
swered Warwick. “ I know it ; for the sons of the North 
are familiar to me, and their rising hath deeper meaning 
than ye deem. What ! have they not decoyed to their 
head ray kinsmen, the heirs of Latimer and Fitzhugh, 
and bold Coniers, whose steel casque should have circled 
a wiser brain ? Have they not taken my name as their 
battle-cry ? And do ye think this falsehood veils nothing 
but the simple truth of just complaint?” 

“Was their rising, then,” asked St.John, in evident 
surprise, “wholly unauthorized by you?” 

“ So help me Heaven ! If I would resort to arms to 
redress a wrong, think not that I myself would be absent 
from the field! No, my lords, friends, and captains — 
time presses ; a few words must suffice to explain what, 
as yet, may be dark to you. I have letters from Montagu 
and others, which reached me the same day as the king’s, 
and which clear up the purpose of our misguided coun- 
trymen. Ye know well that ever in England, but espe- 
cially since the reign of Edward III., strange, wild 
notions of some kind of liberty other than that we enjoy, 
have floated loose through the land. Among the com- 
mons, a half-conscious recollection that the nobles are a 
different race from themselves, feeds a secret rancor and 
inislike, which, at any fair occasion for riot, shows itself 
bitter and ruthless — as in the outbreak of Cade and 
others. And if the harvest fail, or a tax gall, there are 
never wanting men to turn the popular distress to the 


22 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

ends of private ambition or state design. Such a man 
has been the true head and front of this commotion.” 

“ Speak you of Robin Redesdale, now dead ? ” asked 
one of the captains. 

“He is not dead.* Montagu informs me that the 
report was false. He was defeated off York, and retired 
for some days into the woods ; but it is he who has 
enticed the sons of Latimer and Fitzhugh into the revolt, 
and resigned his own command to the martial cunning 
of Sir John Coniers. This Robin of Redesdale is no 
common man. He hath had a clerkly education — he 
hath travelled among the Free Towns of Italy — he hath 
deep purpose in all he doth ; and among his projects is 
the destruction of the nobles here, as it was whilome 
effected in Florence, the depriving us of all offices and 
posts, with other changes, wild to think of, and long to 
name.” 

“And we would have suffered this man to triumph ! ” 
exclaimed De Fulke : “we have been to blame.” 

* The fate of Robin of Redesdale has been as obscure as most 
of the incidents in this most perplexed part of English history. 
While some of the chroniclers finish his career according to the* 
report mentioned in the text, Fabyan not only more charitably 
prolongs his life, but rewards him with the king’s pardon ; and 
according to the annals of his ancient and distinguished family 
(who will pardon, we trust, a license with one of their ancestry 
equally allowed by history and romance), as referred to in Wotton’s 
“English Baronetage” (Art. Hilyard), and which probably rests 
upon the authority of the life of Richard TIL, in Stowe’s “Annals,” 
he is represented as still living in the reign of that king. But the 
whole account of this famous demagogue in Wotton is, it must be 
owned, full of historical mistakes. 


THE LAST OF THE BA HONS. 


23 


“ Under fair pretence he has gathered numbers, and 
now wields an army. I have reason to know that, had 
he succeeded in estranging ye from Edward, and had the 
king fallen, dead or alive, into his hands, his object would 
have been to restore Henry of Windsor, but on con- 
ditions that would have left king and baron little more 
+han pageants in the state. I knew this man years ago. 
I have watched him since ; and, strange though it may 
seem to you, he hath much in him that I admire as a 
subject, and should fear were I a king. Brief, thus runs 
my counsel : — For our sake and the realm’s safety, we 
must see this armed multitude disbanded — that done, we 
must see the grievances they with truth complain of fairly 
redressed. Think not, my lords, I avenge my own wrongs 
alone, when I go with you in your resolve to banish from 
the king’s councils the baleful influence of the queen’s 
kin. Till that be compassed, no peace for England. 
As a leprosy, their avarice crawls over the nobler parts 
of the state, and devours while it sullies. Leave this to 
me ; and, though we will redress ourselves, let us now 
assist our king ! ” 

With one voice, the unruly officers clamored their 
assent to all the earl urged, and expressed their readiness 
to sally at once from the gates, and attack the rebels. 

But,” observed an old veteran, “ what are we amongst 
so many? Here a handful — there an army!” 

“ Fear not, reverend sir,” answered Warwick, with an 
assured smile; “is not this army in part gathered from 
my own province of Yorkshire ? Is it not formed of men 


24 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS, 


who have eaten of my bread and drank of my cup ? Let 
me see the man who will discharge one arrow at the walls 
which contain Richard Nevile of Warwick. Now each 
to your posts — I to the king.” 

Like the pouring of new blood into a decrepit body 
seemed the arrival, at that feeble garrison, of the Earl of 
Warwick. From despair into the certainty of triumph 
leaped every heart. Already, at the sight of his banner 
floating by the side of Edw^ard’s, the gunner had repaired 
to his bombard — the archer had taken up his bow- — the 
village itself, before disaffected, poured all its scant} 
population — women, and age, and children — to the walls 
And when the earl joined the king upon the ramparts 
he found that able general sanguine and elated, anu 
pointing out to Clarence the natural defences of the 
place. Meanwhile the rebels, no doubt apprized by their 
scouts of the new aid, had already halted in their march, 
and the dark swarm might be seen indistinctly undulating, 
as bees ere they settle, amidst the verdure of the plain. 

Well, cousin,” said the king, “have ye brought these 
Hotspurs to their allegiance ? ” 

“Sire, yes,” said Warwick, gravely, “but we have 
here no force to resist yon army.” 

“Bring you not succors?” said the king, astonished. 
“ You must have passed through London. Have you 
left no troops upon the road ? ” 

“I had no time, sir; and London is v/ell-nigh palsied 
with dismay. Had I waited to collect troops, I might 
have found a king’s head blackening over those gates.” 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


25 


“Well,” returned Edward, carelessly, “few or many, 
one gentleman is more worth than a hundred varlets. 

* We are eno’ for glory,’ as Henry said at Agincourt.” 

“ No, sire ; you are too skilful and too wise to believe 
your boast. These men we cannot conquer — we may 
disperse them.” 

“ By what spell ? ” 

“By their king’s word to redress their complaints.” 

“ And banish my queen ? ” 

“ Heaven forbid that man should part those whom 
God has joined,” returned Warwick, “Not my lady, 
your queen, but my lady’s kindred.” 

“Rivers is dead, and gallant John,” said Edward, 
sadly — “is not that enough for revenge?” 

“ It is not revenge that we require, but pledges for the 
land’s safety,” answered Warwick. “And to be plain, 
without such a promise these walls may be your tomb.” 

Edward walked apart, strongly debating within him- 
self. In his character were great contrasts ; no man was 
more frank in common — no man more false when it 

• suited — no man had more levity in wanton love, or more 
firm affection for those he once thoroughly took to his 
heart. He was the reverse of grateful for service yielded, 
yet he was warm in protecting those on whom service 
was conferred. He was resolved not to give up the 
Woodvilles, and, after, a short self-commune, he equally 
determined not to risk his crown and life by persevering 
in resistance to the demand for their downfall. Inly 

11.— 3 


26 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

obstinate, outwardly yielding, he concealed his falsehood 
with his usual soldierly grace. 

“Warwick,” he said, returning to the earPs side, “you 
cannot advise me to what is misbeseeming, and therefore, 
in this strait, I resign my conduct to your hands. I will 
not unsay to yon mutinous gentlemen what I have already 
said ; but what you judge it right to promise in my name 
0 them, or to the insurgents, I will not suppose that 
mine honor will refuse to concede. But go not hence, O 
noblest friend that ever stood by a king’s throne I — go 
not hence till the grasp of your hand assures me that all 
past unkindness is gone and buried j yea, and by this 
hand, and while its pressure is warm in mine, bear not 
too hard on thy king’s alfection for his lady’s kindred.” 

“Sire,” said Warwick, though his generous nature well 
nigh melted into weakness, and it was with an effort that 
he adhered to his purpose — “Sire, if dismissed for 
awhile, they shall not be degraded- And if it be, on 
consideration, wise to recall from the family of Woodville 
your grants of lands and lordships, take from your War- 
wick— whO) rich in his king’s love, hath eno’ to spare — 
take the double of what you would recall. O, be frank 
with me — be. true — be steadfast, Edward, and dispose 
of my lands whenever you would content a favorite;” 

“Not to impoverish thee, my Warwick,” answered 
Edward, smiling, “ did I call thee to my aid ; for the 
rest, my revenues as duke of York are at least mine to 
bestow, tjro now to the hostile camp — go as sole 
minister and captain-general of this realm — go with all 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 2T 

powers and honors a king can give ; and when these dis- 
tricts are at peace, depart to our Welsh provinces, as 
chief justiciary of that principality. Pembroke’s mourn- 
ful death leaves that high post in my gift. It cannot 
add to your greatness, but it proves to England your 
sovereign’s trust” 

“And while that trust is given,” said Warwick, with 
tears in his eyes, “ may Heaven strengthen my arm in 
battle, and sharpen my brain in council. But I play the 
laggard. The sun wanes westward ; it should not go 
down while a hostile army menaces the son of Richard 
of York.” 

The earl strode rapidly away, reached the broad space 
where his followers still stood, dismounted, but beside 
their steeds — 

“ Trumpets advance — pursuivants and heralds go be- 
fore — Marmaduke, mount 1 The rest I need not. We 
ride to the insurgent camp.” 


CHAPTER III. 

The Camp of the Rebels. 

The rebels had halted about a mile from the town, and 
were already pitching their tents for the night. It was 
a tumultuous, clamorous, but not altogether undisciplined 
array ; for Coniers was a leader of singular practice in 
reaucing men into the machinery of war, and where his 


28 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


skill might have failed, the prodigious influence and 
energy of Robin of Redesdale ruled the passions and 
united the discordant elements. This last was, indeed, 
in much worthy the respect in which Warwick held his 
name. In times more ripe for him, he would have been 
a mighty demagogue and a successful regenerator. His 
birth was known but to few ; his education and imperious 
temper made him vulgarly supposed of noble origin ; but 
had he descended from a king^s loins, Robert Hilyard 
had still been the son of the Saxon people. Warwick 
overrated, perhaps, Hilyard’s wisdom ; for, despite his 
Italian experience, his ideas were far from embracing any 
clear and definite system of democracy. He had much 
of the frantic levelisra and jacquerie of his age and land, 
and could probably not have explained to himself all the 
changes he desired to effect ; but, coupled with his hatred 
to the nobles, his deep and passionate sympathy with the 
poor, his heated and fanatical chimeras of a republic, 
half- political and half-religious, — he had, with no un- 
common inconsistency, linked the cause of a dethroned 
king. For as the Covenanters join with the Stuarts 
against the succeeding and more tolerant dynasty, never 
relinquishing their own anti-monarchic theories; as in 
our time, the extreme party on the popular side has 
leagued with the extreme of the aristocratic, in order to 
crush the medium policy, as a common foe ; so the bold 
leveller united with his zeal for Margaret the very cause 
which the House of Lancaster might be supposed the 
least to favor. He expected to obtain from a sovereign. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


29 


dependent upon a popular reaction for restoration, grea*; 
popular privileges. And as the church had deserted the 
Red Rose for the White, he sought to persuade many 
of the Lollards, ever ready to show their discontent, that 
Margaret (in revenge on the hierarchy) would extend the 
protection they had never found in the previous sway of 
her husband and Henry Y. Possessed of extraordinary 
craft, and even cunning in secular intrigues — energetic, 
versatile, bold, indefatigable, and, above all, marvellously 
gifted with the arts that inflame, stir up, and guide the 
physical force of masses, Robert Hilyard had been, in- 
deed, the soul and life of the present revolt ; and his 
prudent moderation in resigning the nominal command 
to those whose military skill and high birth raised a riot 
into the dignity of rebellion, had given that consistency 
and method to the rising which popular movements never 
attain without aristocratic aid. 

In the principal tent of the encampment the leaders of 
the insurrection were assembled. 

There was Sir John Coniers, who had married one of 
the Neviles, the daughter of Fauconberg, Lord High 
Admiral, but who had profited little by this remote con- 
nection with Warwick ; for, with all his merit, he was a 
greedy, grasping man, and he had angered the hot earl 
in pressing his claims too imperiously. This renowned 
knight was a tall, gaunt man, whose iron frame sixty 
winters had not bowed ; there, were the young heirs of 
Latimer and Fitzhugh, in gay gilded armor and scarlet 
mantelines; and there, in a plain cuiras.s, trebly welded, 

3 * 


30 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


and of immese weight, but the low’er limbs left free and 
unencumbered, in thick leathern hose, stood Kobin of 
Redesdale. Other captains there were, whom different 
motives had led to the common confederacy. ' There, 
might be seen the secret Lollard, hating either Rose, 
stern and sour, and acknowledging no leader but Hilyard, 
whom he knew as a Lollard’s son ; there might be seen 
the ruined spendthrift, discontented with fortune, and re- 
garding civil war as the cast of a die — death for the for- 
feiture, lordships for the gain ; there, the sturdy Saxon 
squire, oppressed by the little baron of his province, and 
rather hopeful to abase a neighbor than dethrone a king, 
of whom he knew little, and for whom he cared still less ; 
and there, chiefly distinguished from the rest by grizzled 
beard, upturned moustache, erect mien, and grave, not 
thoughtful aspect, were the men of a former period — 
the soldiers who had fought against the Maid of Arc — 
now without place, station, or hope, in peaceful times, 
already half robbers by profession, and decoyed to any 
standard that promised action, pay, or plunder. 

The conclave were in high and warm debate. 

“ If this be true,” said Coniers, who stood at the head 
of the table, his helmet, axe, truncheon, and a rough map 

of the walls of Olney before him — “ if this be true if 

our scouts are not deceived — if the Earl of Warwick is 
in the village, and if his banner float beside King Ed- 
ward’s — I say bluntly, as soldiers should speak, that I 
have been deceived and juggled ! ” 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


31 


“And by whom, Sir Knight and cousin!” said the 
heir of Fitzhugh, reddening. 

“ By you, young kinsman, and this hot-mouthed dare- 
devil, Robin of Redesdale 1 Ye assured' me, both, that 
the earl approved the rising — that he permitted the levy- 
ing yon troops in his name — that he knew well the time 
was come to declare against the Woodvilles, and that no 
sooner was an army mustered than he would place him- 
self at its head ; and, I say, if this be not true, you have 
brought these grey hairs into dishonor!” 

“And what, Sir John Coniers,” exclaimed Robin, 
rudely, “what honor had your grey hairs till the steel 
cap covered them ? What honor, I say, under lewd Ed- 
ward and his lusty revellers? You were thrown aside, 
like a broken scythe. Sir John Corners ! You were for- 
saken in your rust ! Warwick himself, your wife’s great 
kinsman, could do nought in your favor! You stand 
now, leader of thousands, lord of life and death, master 
of Edward and the throne ! We have done this for you, 
and you reproach us!” 

“And,” began the heir of Fitzhugh, encouraged by the 
boldness of Hilyard, “ we had all reason to believe my 
noble uncle, the Earl of Warwick, approved our emprise. 
When this brave fellow (pointing to Robin) came to in- 
form me that, with his own eyes, he had seen the waxen 
effigies of my great kinsman, the hellish misdeed of the 
queen’s witch-dam, I repaired to my Lord Montagu ; and, 
though that prudent courtier refused to declare openly, he 


82 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

let me see that war with the Woodvilles was not unwv* 
come to him.” 

“Yet this same Montagu,” observed one of the ring 
leaders, “ when Hilyard was well-nigh at the gates of 
York, sallied out and defeated him, sans ruth, sans 
ceremony.” 

“ Yes, but he spared my life, and beheaded the dead 
body of poor Hugh Withers in my stead ; for John Ne- 
vile is cunning, and he picks his nuts from the brennen 
without lesing his own paw. It was not the hour for 
him to join us, so he beat us civilly, and with discretion. 
But what hath he done since ? He stands aloof while 
our army swells — while the bull of the Neviles, and the 
staff of the earl, are the ensigns of our war — and while 
Edward gnaws out his fierce heart in yon walls of Olney. 
How say ye, then, that Warwick, even if now in person 
with the king, is in heart against us ? Nay, he may have 
entered Olney but to capture the tyrant.” 

“ If so,” said Corners, “ all is as it should be : but if 
Earl Warwick, who, though he hath treated me ill, is a 
Stour carle, and to be feai*ed if not loved, join the king, I 
break this wand, and ye will seek out another captain,” 

“And a captain shall be found ! ” cried Robin. “Are 
we so poor in valor, that when one man leaves us we are 
headless and undone ? What if Warwick so betray us 
and himself — he brings no forces. And never, by God’s 
blessing, should we separate, till we have redressed the 
wrongs of our countrymen ! ” 

“Good ! ” said the Saxon squii’e, winking and looking 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


32 


wise, — “ not till we have burned to the ground the Baron 
of Bullstock’s castle.” 

“ Not,” said a Lollard, sternly — “till we have shortened 
the purple gown of the churchman — not till abbot and 
bishop have felt on their backs the whip wherewith they 
have scourged the godly believer and the humble saint.” 

“Not,” added Robin, “till we have assured bread to 
the poor man, and the filling of the flesh-pot, and the law 
to the weak, and the scaffold to the evil-doer.” 

“All this is mighty well,” said, bluntly. Sir Geoffrey 
Gates, the leader of the mercenaries, a skilful soldier, but 
a predatory and lawless bravo — “but who is to pay me 
and my tall fellows?” 

At this pertinent question, there was a general hush 
of displeasure and disgust. 

“ For look you, my masters,” continued Sir Geoffrey, 

“as long as I and my comrades here believed that the 

rich earl, who hath half England for his provant, was at 
the head or the tail of this matter, we were contented to 
wait awhile ; but devil a groat hath yet gone into my 
gipsire, and as for pillage, what is a farm or a home- 
stead I an’ it were a church or a castle, there might be 
pickings.” 

“ There is much plate of silver, and a sack or so of 
marks and royals in the stronghold of the Baron of Bull- 
stock,” quoth the Saxon squire, doggedly hounding on 
to his revenge. 

“ You see, my friends,” said Coniers, with a smile, and 
shrugging his shoulders — “ that men cannot gird a king- 

0 


34 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


doni with ropes of sand. Suppose we conquer and take 
captive — nay, or slay King Edward — what then?’’ 

“ The Duke of Clarence, male heir to the throne,’’ said 
the heir of Latimer, “ is Lord Warwick’s son-in-law, and 
therefore akin to you. Sir John.’’ 

“ That is true,” observed Coniers, musingly. 

“Not ill thought of, sir,” said Sir Geoffrey Gates — 
and my advice is to proclaim Clarence king, and War- 
wick lord protector. We have some chance of the angels 
then.’’ 

“Besides,” said the heir of Fitzhugh, “our purpose 
once made clear, it will be hard either for Warwick or 
Clarence to go against us — harder still for the country 
not to believe them with us. Bold measures are our 
wisest councillors.” 

“ Dm ! ” said the Lollard — “ Lord Warwick is a good 
man, and hath never, though his brother be a bishop, 
abetted the church tyrannies. But as for George of 
CJarence ” 

“As for Clarence,” said Hilyard, who saw, with dismay 
and alarm, that the rebellion he designed to turn at the 
fitting hour to the service of Lancaster, might now only 
help to shift, from one shoulder to the other, the hated 
dynasty of York — “as for Clarence, he hath Edward’s 
vices, without his manhood.” He paused, and seeing 
that the crisis had ripened the hour for declaring himself, 
his bold temper pushed at once to its object. “ No ! ” he 
continued, folding his arms, raising his head and com- 
prehending the whole council in his keen and steady gaze 


THE LAST OF THE IJ A R O N S . 


35 


— “ no I lords and gentlemen — since speak I must in 
this emergency, hear me calmly. Nothing has prospered 
in England since we abandoned our lawful king. If we 
rid ourselves of Edward, let it not be to sink from a 
harlot-monger to a drunkard. In the Tower pines our 
true lord, already honored as a saint. Hear me, I say — 
hear me out ! On the frontiers, an army that keeps 
Gloucester at bay hath declared for Henry and Margaret. 
Let us, after seizing Olney, march thither at once, and 
unite forces. Margaret is already prepared to embark 
for England. I have friends in London who will attack 
the Tower, and deliver Henry. To you, Sir John 
Colliers, in the queen’s name, I promise an earldom and 
the garter. To you, the heirs of Latimer and Fitzhugh, 
the high posts that beseem your birth ; to all of you, 
knights and captains, just share and allotment in the con- 
fiacated lands of the Woodvilles and the Yorkists. To 
you, brethren,” and addressing the Lollards, his voice 
softened into a meaning accent, “ that, compelled to wor- 
ship in secret, they yet understood, “ shelter from your 
foes, and mild laws ; and to you, brave soldiers, that pay 
which a king’s coffers alone can supply. Wherefore I 
say, down with all subject-banners I up with the Red 
Rose and the Antelope, and long live Henry the Sixth ! ” 
This address, however subtle in its adaptation to the 
various passions of those assembled, however aided by 
+he voice, spirit, and energy of the speaker, took too 
much by surprise those present to produce at once its 
eflfect. 


36 


THE LAST OF THE ]l ARONS. 


The Lollards remembered the fires lighted for their 
martyrs by the House of Lancaster ; and though blindly 
confident in Hilyard, were not yet prepared to respond 
to his call. The young heir of Fitzhugh, who had, in 
truth, but taken arras to avenge the supposed wrongs of 
Warwick, whom he idolized, saw no object' gained in the 
rise of Warwick’s enemy — Queen Margaret. The merce- 
naries called to mind the woeful state of Henry’s ex- 
chequer in the former time. The Saxon squire muttered 
to himself — “And what the devil is to become of the 
castle of Bullstock?” But Sir Henry Nevile (Lord 
Latimer’s son), who belonged to that branch of his house 
which had espoused the Lancaster cause, and who was in 
the secret councils of Hilyard, caught up the cry, and 
said — “ Hilyard doth not exceed his powers ; and he who 
strikes for the Red Rose, shall carve out his own lord- 
ship from the manors of every Yorkist that he slays 1 ” 
Sir John Coniers hesitated; poor, long neglected, ever 
enterprising and ambitious, he w^as dazzled by the prof- 
fered bribe — but age is slow to act, and he expressed 
himself with the measured caution of grey hairs. 

“A king’s name,” said he, “is a tower of strength, 
especially when marching against a king ; but this is a 
matter for general assent and grave forethought.” 

Before any other (for ideas did not rush at once to 
words in those days) found his tongue, a mighty uproar 
was heard without. It did not syllable itself into distinct 
sound ; it uttered no name — it was such a shout as num- 
bers alone could raise, and to such a shout wouid some 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. S’? 

martial leader have rejoiced to charge to battle, so full 
of depth and fervor, and enthusiasm, and good heart, it 
seemed, leaping from rank to rank, from breast to breast, 
from earth to heaven. With one accord the startled cap- 
tains made to the entrance of the tent, and there they 
saw, in the broad space before them, enclosed by the 
tsnts which were grouped in a wide semicircle, — for the ' 
mass of the hardy rebel army slept in the open air, atid 
the tents were but for leaders, — they saw, we say, in that 
broad space, a multitude kneeling, and in the midst, upon 
his good steed Saladin, bending graciously down, the 
martial countenance, the lofty stature, of the Earl of 
Warwick. Those among the captains who knew him not 
personally, recognised him by the popular description — 
by the black war-horse, whose legendary fame had been 
hymned by every minstrel ; by the sensation his appear- 
ance had created ; by the armorial insignia of his heralds, 
grouped behind him, and whose gorgeous tabards blazed 
with his cognizance and quarterings in azure, or, and 
argent. The sun was slowly setting, and poured its rays 
upon the bare head of the mighty noble, gathering round 
it in the hazy atmosphere like a halo. The homage of 
the crowd to that single form, unarmed, and scarce at- 
te ided, struck a death-knell to the hopes of Hilyard — 
struck awe into all his comrades ! The presence of that 
one man seemed to ravish from them, as by magic, a vast 
army ; power, and state, and command, left them sud- 
denly to be absorbed in him ! Captains, they were troop- 
II.— 4 


38 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

les-s — tlie wieMer of men’s hearts was amongst them, and 
from his barb assumed reign, as from his throne ! 

“ Gads, my life ! ” said Corners, turning to his com- 
rades, we have now, with a truth, the earl amongst us; 
but, unless he come to lead us on to Olney, I would as 
lief see the king’s provost at my shoulder.” 

“The crowd separates — he rides this way !” said the 
heir of Fitzhugh. “ Shall we go forth to meet him ?” 

“ Not so ! ” exclaimed Hilyard : “ we are still the leaders 
of this army ; let him find us deliberating on the siege of 
Olney ! ” 

“ Right ! ” said Coniers ; “ and if there come dispute, 
let not the rabble hear it.” 

The captains re-entered the tent, and in grave silence 
awaited the earl’s coming ; nor was this suspense loug. 
Warwick, leaving the multitude in the rear, and taking 
only one of the subaltern officers in the rebel camp as his 
guide and usher, arrived at the tent, and was admitted 
into the council. 

The captains, Hilyard alone excepted, bowed with 
great reverence as the earl entered. 

“Welcome, puissant sir, and illustrious kinsman!” 
said Coniers, who had decided on the line to be adopted 
— “ you are come at last to take the command of the 
troops raised in your name, and into your hands I resign 
this truncheon.” 

“I accept it. Sir John Coniers,” answered Warwick, 
taking the place of dignity ; “ and since you thus con- 
stitute me your commander, 1 proceed at once to my stern 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


39 


duties. How happens it, knights and gentlemen, that in 
my absence, ye have dared to make my name the pretext 
of rebellion? Speak thou, my sister’s son!” 

“ Cousin and lord,” said the heir of Fitzhugh, redden- 
ing but not abashed, “ we could not believe but that you 
would smile on those who have risen to assert your wrongs 
and defend your life.” And he then briefly related the 
tale of the Duchess of Bedford’s waxen effigies, and 
pointed to Hilyard as the eye-witness. 

“And,” began Sir Henry Nevile, “you, meanwhile, 
were banished, seemingly, from the king’s court; the dis- 
sensions between you and Edward sufficiently the land’s 
talk — the king’s vices, the land’s shame!” 

“Nor did we act without at least revealing our inten- 
tions to my uncle and your brother, the Lord Montagu,” 
added the heir of Fitzhugh. 

“Meanwhile,” said Robin of Redesdale, “ the commons 
were oppressed, the people discontented, the Woodvilles 
plundering us, and the king wasting our substance on 
concubines and minions. We have had cause eno’ for 
our rising ! ” 

The earl listened to each speaker in stern silence. 

“For all this,” he said at last, “you have, without my 
leave or sanction, levied armed men in ray name, and 
would have made Richard Nevile seem to Europe a traitor, 
without the courage to be a rebel ! Your lives are in my 
power, and those lives are forfeit to the laws.” 

“ 11 we have incurred your disftxvor from our over-zeal 
for you,” said the son of Lord Fitzhugh, touchingly, 


40 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

“take our lives, for they are of little worth.” And the 
young nobleman unbuckled his sword, and laid it on the 
table. 

“But,” resumed Warwick, not seeming to heed his ne- 
phew’s humility, “ I, who have ever loved the people of ■ 
England, and before king and parliament have ever 
pleaded their cause — I, as captain-general and first officer 
of these realms, here declare, that whatever motives of 
ambition or interest may have misled men of mark and 
birth, I believe that the commons at least never rise in 
arms without some excuse for their error. Speak out, 
then, you, their leaders ; and putting aside all that relates 
to me as the one man, say what are the grievances of 
which the many would complain.” 

And now there was silence, for the knights and gentle- 
men knew little of the complaints of the populace ; the 
Lollards did not dare to expose their oppressed faith, 
and the squires and franklins were too uneducated to 
detail the grievances they had felt. But then, the im- 
mense superiority of the man of the people at once as- 
serted itself; and Hilyard, whose eye the earl had hitherto 
shunned, lifted his deep voice. With clear precision, in 
indignant but not declamatory eloquence, he painted the 
disorders of the time — the insolent exactions of the hos- 
pitals and abbeys — the lawless violence of each petty 
baron — the weakness of the royal authority in restraining 
oppression — its terrible power in aiding the oppressor. 
He accumulated instance on instance of misrule ; he 
showed the insecurity of property ; the adulteration of 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 41 

the coin ; the burden of the imposts ; he spoke of wives 
and maidens violated — of industry defrauded — of houses 
forcibly entered — of barns and granaries despoiled — of 
the impunity of all offenders, if high-born — of the punish- 
ment of all complaints, if poor and lowly. “ Tell us not,” 
he said, “ that this is the necessary evil of the times, the 
hard condition of mankind. It was otherwise. Lord War- 
wick, when Edward first swayed ; for you then made 
yourself dear to the people by your justice. Still men 
talk, hereabouts, of the golden rule of Earl Warwick; 
but since you have been, though great in office, power- 
less in deed, absent in Calais, or idle at Middleham, Eng- 
land hath been but the plaything of the Woodvilles, and 
the king’s ears have been stuffed with flattery as with 
wool. And,” continued Hilyard, warming with his subject, 
and, to the surprise of the Lollards, entering boldly on 
their master-grievance — “ and this is not all. When 
Edward ascended the throne, there wms, if not justice, at 
least repose, for the persecuted believers who hold that 
God’s word wms given to man to read, study, and digest 
into godly deeds. I speak plainly. I speak of that faith 
which your great father, Salisbury, and many of the 
house of York, were believed to favor — that faith which 
is called the Lollard, and the oppression of which, more 
than aught else, lost to Lancaster the hearts of England. 
But of late, the church, assuming the power it ever 
grasps the most under the most licentious kings (for the 
sinner prince hath ever the tyrant priest !), hath put in 
vigor oM laws, for the wronging man’s thought and con- 

4 * 


42 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


science ; * and we sit at our doors under the shade, not 
of the \»ine-tree, but the gibbet. For all these things we 
have drawn the sword ; and if now, you, taking advan- 
tage of the love borne to you by the sons of England, 
push that sword back into the sheath, you, generous, 
great, and princely though you be, will deserve the fate 
that I foresee and can foretell. Yes I ” cried the speaker, 
extending his arms, and gazing fixedly on the proud face 
of the earl, which was not inexpressive of emotion — . 
“ yes ! I see you, having deserted the people, deserted by 
them also in your need — I see you, the dupe of an un- 
grateful king, stripped of power and honor, an exile and 
an outlaw ; and when you call in vain upon the people, 
in whose hearts you now reign, remember, 0 fallen star, 
son of the morning ! that in the hour of their might you 
struck down the people’s right arm, and paralyzed their 
power. And now, if you will, let your friends and Eng- 
land’s champions glut the scaffolds of your woman-king ! ” 

He ceased — a murmur went round the conclave ; every 
breast breathed hard — every eye turned to Warwick. 
That mighty statesman mastered the effect which the 
thrilling voice of the popular pleader produced on him ; 
but at that moment he had need of all his frank and 
honorable loyalty to remind him that he was there but to 

* The Lollards had greatly contributed to seat Edward on the 
throne: and much of the subsequent discontent, no doubt, arose 
from their disappointment, when, as Sharon Turner well expresses 
it, “his indolence allied him to the Church.” and he became “ here- 
ticorurn Keverissi/iiwi — Croyl., p. 504 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


43 


fulfil a promise and discharge a trust — tnat he was the 
king’s delegate, not the king’s judge. 

“You have spoken, bold man,” said he, ‘’as, in an 
hour when the rights of princes are weighed in one scale, 
the subject’s swords in the other, I, were I king, would 
wish free men to speak. And now you, Robert Hilyard, 
and you, gentlemen, hear me, as envoy to King Edward 
lY. To all of you I promise complete amnesty and 
entire pardon. His highness believes you misled, not 
criminal, and your late deeds will not be remembered in 
your future services. So much for the leaders. Now for 
the commons. My liege the king is pleased to recall me 
to the high powers I once exercised, and to increase 
rather than to lessen them. In his name, I pledge my- 
self to full and strict inquiry into all the'grievances Robin 
of Redesdale hath set forth, with a view to speedy and 
complete redress. Nor is this all. His highness, laying 
aside his purpose of war with France, will have less need 
of imposts on his subjects, and the burdens and taxes 
will be reduced. Lastly — his grace, ever anxious to con- 
tent his people, hath most benignly empowered me to 
promise that, whether or not ye rightly judge the queen’s 
kindred, they will no longer have part or weight in the 
king’s councils. The Duchess of Bedford, as beseems a 
lady so sorrowfully widowed, will retire to her own home; 
and ihe Lord Scales will fulfil a mission to the court of 
Spain. Thus, then, assenting to all reasonable demands 

promising to heal all true grievances — proffering you 

gracious pardon — 1 discharge my duty to king and 1o 


44 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


people. I pray that these unhappy sores may be healed 
evermore, under the blessing of God and our patron 
saint ; and in the name of Edward lY., Lord Suzerain 
of England and of France, I break up this truncheon 
and disband the army ! ” 

Among those present, this moderate and wise address 
produced a general sensation of relief; for the earl’s dis- 
avowal of the revolt, took away all hope of its success. 
But the common approbation was not shared by Hilyard. 
He sprang upon the table, and seizing the broken frag- 
ments of the truncheon which the earl had snapped as a 
willow twig, exclaimed — “And thus, in the name of the 
people, I seize the command that ye unworthily resign 1 
Oh, yes, what fools were yonder drudges of the hard hand 
and the grimed brow, and the leather jerkin, to expect 
succor from knight and noble I ” 

So saying, he bounded from the tent, and rushed to- 
wards the multitude at the distance. 

“ Ye, knights and lords, men of blood and birth, were 
but the tools of a manlier and wiser Cade I ” said War- 
wick, calmly. “ Follow me I ” 

The earl strode from the tent, sprang upon his steed, 
and was in the midst of the troops with his heralds by 
his side, ere Hilyard had been enabled to begin the 
harangue he had intended. Warwick’s trumpets sounded 
to silence ; and the earl himself, in his loud clear voice, 
briefly addressed the immense audience. Master, scarcely 
less than Hilyard, of the popular kind of eloquence, 
which — short, plain, generous, and simple — cuts its way 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


45 


at once through the feelings to the policy, Warwick 
briefly but forcibly recapitulated to the commons the pro- 
mises he had made to the captains ; and as soon as they 
heard of taxes removed, the coinage reformed, the corn 
thrave abolished, the Woodvilles dismissed, and the earl 
recalled to power, the rebellion was at an end. They 
answered with a joyous shout his order to disperse and 
retire to their homes forthwith. But the indomitable 
Hilyard, ascending a small eminence, began his counter- 
agitation. The earl saw his robust form and waving 
hand — he saw the crowd sway towards him ; and too well 
acquainted with mankind to suffer his address, he spurred 
'to the spot, and turning to Marmaduke, said, in a loud 
'voice, “ Marmaduke Nevile, arrest that man in the king’s 
name I ” 

Marmaduke sprang from his steed, and laid his hand 
on Hilyard’s shoulder. Not one of the multitude stirred 
on behalf of their demagogue. As before the sun recede 
the stars, all lesser lights had died in the blaze of War- 
wick’s beloved name. Hilyard griped his dagger, and 
struggled an instant ; but when he saw the awe and 
apathy of the armed mob, a withering expression of dis- 
dain passed over his hardy face. 

“ Do ye suffer this ? ” he said. “ Do ye suffer me, who 
have placed swords in your hands, to go forth in bonds, 
and to the death ? ” 

“ The stout earl wrongs no man,” said a single voice, 
and the populace echoed the word. 

2l 


46 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


“ Sir, then, I care not for life, since liberty is gone. I 
yield myself your prisoner.” 

“A horse for my captive ! ” said Warwick, laughing — 
“ and hear me promise you, that he shall go unscathed 
in goods and) in limbs. God wot, when Warwick and 
the people meet, no victim should be sacrificed I Hurrah 
for King Edward and fair England ! ” 

He waved his plumed cap as he spoke, and within the 
walls of Olney was heard the shout that answered. 

Slowly the earl and his scanty troop turned the rein : 
as he receded, the multitude broke up rapidly, and when 
the moon rose, that camp was a solitude ! * 

Such, for our nature is ever grander in the individual 
than the mass, — such is the power of man above mankind I 


CHAPTER IV. 

The Norman Earl and the Saxon Demagogue confer. 

On leaving the camp, Warwick rode in advance of his 
train, and his countenance was serious and full of thought. 
At length, as a turn in the road hid the little band from 

* The dispersion of the rebels at Olney is forcibly narrated by 
a few sentences, graphic from their brief simplicity, in the “ Pic- 
torial History of England,” Book v., p. 104. “They (Warwick, 
&c.) repaired in a friendly manner to Olney, where they found 
Edward in a most unhappy condition ; his friends were dead or 
scattered, flying for their lives, or hiding themselves in remote 
places: the insurgents were almost upon him. A loord/rom War* 
wick xent the inmrgmtx quietly back to the North.'' 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


47 


the view of the rebels, the earl motioned to Marmacluke 
to advance with his prisoner. The young Nevile then 
fell back, and Robin and Warwick rode breast to breast, 
out of hearing of the rest. ' ' 

“ Master Hilyard, I am well content that my brother, 
when you fell into his hands, spared your life, out of 
gratitude for the favor you once showed to mine.’’ 

“Your:inobIe brother, my lord,” answered Robin, 
drily — “is, perhaps, not aware of the service I once 
^rendered yon. Methinks he spared me rather, because, 
without me, an enterprise which has shaken the Wood- 
villes from their roots around the throne, and given back 
England to the Neviles, had been nipped in the bud ! — 
Your brother is a deep thinker!” 

“ I grieve to hear thee speak thus of the Lord Montagu. 
I know that he hath wilier devices than become, in mine 
eyes, a well-born knight and a sincere man ; but he loves 
his king, and his ends are juster than his means. Master 
Hilyard, enough of the past evil. Some months after the 
field of Hexham, I chanced to fall, when alone, amongst 
a band of roving and fierce Lancastrian outlaws. Thou, 
their leader, recognising the crest on my helm, and mind- 
ful of some slight indulgence once shown to thy strange 
notions of republican liberty, didst save me from the 
swords of thy followers: from that time T have sought 
in vain to mend thy fortunes. Thou hast rejected all 
mine offers, and I know well that thou hast lent thy ser- 
vice to the fatal cause of Lancaster. Many a time I 
might have given thee to the law, but gratitude for thy 


48 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


aid in the needful strait, and to speak sooth, my disdain 
of all individual efforts to restore a fallen house, made 
me turn my eyes from transgressions, which, once made 
known to the king, had placed thee beyond pardon. I 
see now that thou art a man of head and arm to bring 
great danger upon nations ; and though this time W arwick 
bids thee escape and live, — if once more thou offend, know 
me only as the king’s minister. The debt between us is 
now cancelled. Yonder lies the path that conducts to 
the forest. Farewell. Yet stay I — poverty may have 
led thee into treason.” 

“Poverty,” interrupted Hilyard — “poverty. Lord 
Warwick, leads men to sympathize with the poor, and 
therefore I have done with riches.” He paused, and his 
breast heaved. “Yet,” he added, sadly, “now that I 
have seeu the cowardice and ingratitude of men, my call- 
ing seems over, and my spirit crushed.” 

“Alas I ” said Warwick, “whether man be rich or poor, 
ingrdtude is the vice of men ; and you, who have felt it 
from the mob, menace me with it from a king. But each 
must carve out his own way through this earth, without 
over-care for applause or blame ; and the tomb is the sole 
judge of mortal memory!” 

Robin looked hard in the earl’s face, which was dark 
and gloomy, as he thus spoke, and approaching nearer, 
he said — “Lord Warwick, I take from you liberty and 
life the more willingly, because a voice I cannot mistake 
tells me, and hath long told me, that, sooner or later, 
time will bind us to each other. Unlike other nooies, 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS, i 


49 


you have owed your power not so much to lordship, land, 
and birth, and a king's smile, as to the love you have 
nobly won ; you alone, true knight and princely Christian 
— you alone, in war, have spared the humble — you alone, 
stalwart and resistless champion, have directed your lance 
against your equals, and your order hath gone forth to 
the fierce of heart — ‘Never smite the commons!' In 
peace, you alone have stood up in your haughty parlia- 
ment for just law or for gentle mercy ; your castle hath 
had a board for the hungry, and a shelter for the house- 
less ; your pride, which hath bearded kings and humbled 
upstarts, hath never had a taunt for the lowly ; and 
therefore I — son of the people — in the people’s name, 
bless you living, and sigh to ask whether a people’s grati- 
tude will mourn you dead 1 Beware Edward's false 
smile — -beware Clarence’s fickle faith — beware Glouces- 
ter's inscrutable wile. Mark, the sun sets I — and while 
we speak, yon dark cloud gathers over your plumed head.” 

He pointed to the heavens as he ceased, and a low roll 
of gathering thunder seemed to answer his ominous 
warning. Without tarrying for the earl's answer, Hil- 
yard shook the reins of his steed, and disappeared in the 
winding of the lane through which he took his way. 


II. —5 


D 


50 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


CHAPTER V. 

What Faith Edward IV. purposeth to keep with Earl and People. 

Edward received his triumphant envoy with open 
arms and profuse expressions of gratitude. He exerted 
himself to the utmost in the banquet that crowned the 
day, not only to conciliate the illustrious new comers, but 
to remove from the minds of Raoul de Fulke and his 
officers all memory of their past disaffection. No gift is 
rarer or more successful in the intrigues of life than that 
which Edward eminently possessed — viz., the hypocrisy 
of frankness. Dissimulation is often humble — often 
polished — often grave, sleek, smooth, decorous ; but it is 
rarely gay and jovial, a hearty laugher, a merry, cordial, 
boon companion. Such, however, was the felicitous craft 
of Edward IV. ; and, indeed, his spirits were naturally 
so high — Ms good-humor so flowing — that this joyous 
hypocrisy cost him no effort. Elated at the dispersion 
of his foes — at the prospect of his return to his ordinary 
life of pleasure — there was something so kindly and so 
winning in his mirth, that he subjugated entirely the fiery 
temper of Raoul de Fulke and the steadier suspicions of 
the more thoughtful St. John. Clarence, wholly recon- 
ciled to Edward, gazed on him with eyes swimming with 
affection, and soon drank himself into uproarious joviality. 
The archbishop, more reserved, still animated the society 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


51 


i>y the dry and epigrammatic wit not uncommon to his 
learned and subtle mind; but Warwick, in vain, endea- 
vored to shake off an uneasy, ominous gloom. He was 
not satisfied with Edward’s avoidance of discussion upon 
the grave matters involved in the earl’s promise to the 
insurgents ; and his masculine spirit regarded with some 
disdain, and more suspicion, a levity that he considered 
ill-suited to the emergence. 

The banquet was over, and Edward, having dismissed 
his other attendants, was in his chamber with Lord Has- 
tings, whose office always admitted him to the wardrobe 
of the king. 

Edward’s smile had now left his lip ; he paced the 
room with a hasty stride, and then suddenly opening the 
casement, pointed to the landscape without, which lay 
calm and suffused in moonlight. 

“ Hastings,” said he, abruptly, “ a few hours since, and 
the earth grew spears ! Behold the landscape now ! ” 

“ So vanish all the king’s enemies ! ” 

“Ay, man, ay — if at the king’s word, or before the 

king’s battle-axe ; but at a subject’s command . No, 

I am not a king while another scatters armies in my realm, 
at his bare will. ’Fore Heaven, this shall not last ! ” 
Hastings regarded the countenance of Edward, changed 
from affable beauty into terrible fierceness, with reflec- 
tions suggested by his profound and mournful wisdom. 
“ How little a man’s virtues profit him in the eyes of 
men I” thought he. “ The subject saves the crown, and 
the crown’s wearer never pardons the presumption I ” 


5 ^ 


THE last of the BARONS. 


“You do not speak, sir 1 ’’ exclaimed Edward, irritated 
and impatient. “ Why gaze you thus on me ? ” 

“ Beau siVt?,” returned the favorite, calmly, “ I was 
seeking to discover if your pride spoke, or your nobler 
nature.” 

“Tush!” said the king, petulantly — “the noblest part 
of a king’s nature is his pride as king ! ” Again he strode 
the chamber, and again halted. “ But the earl hath 
fallen into his own snare — he hath promised in ray name 
what I will not perform. Let the people learn that their 
idol hath deceived them. He asks me to dismiss from 
the court the queen’s mother and kindred ! ” 

Hastings, who in this went thoroughly with the earl 
and the popular feeling, and whose only enemies in 
England were the Woodvilles, replied simply — 

“ These are cheap terms, sire, for a king’s life, and the 
crown of England.” 

Edward started, and his eyes flashed that cold, cruel 
fire, which makes eyes of a light coloring so far more ex- 
pressive of terrible passions than the quicker and warmer 
heat of dark orbs. “Think you so, sir? By God’s 
blood, he who proffered them shall repent it in every vein 
of his body 1 Harkye, William Hastings de Hastings, I 
know you to be a deep and ambitious man ; but better 
for you, had you covered that learned brain under the 
cowl of a mendicant friar, than lent one thought to the 
councils of the Earl of Warwick.” 

Hastings, who felt even to fondness the affection which 
Edward generally inspired in those about his person, and 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


53 


who, far from sympathizing, except in hate of the Woocl- 
villes, with the earl, saw that beneath that mighty tree 
no new plants could push into their fullest foliage, 
reddened with anger at this imperious menace. 

“ My liege,’’ said he, with becoming dignity and spirit, 
“if you can thus address your most tried confidant and 
your lealest friend, your most dangerous enemy is your- 
self.” 

“Stay, man,” said the king, softening, “I was over 
warm, but the wild beast within me is chafed. Would 
Gloucester were here i ” 

“ I can tell you what would be the counsels of that 
wise young prince, for I know his mind,” answered 
Hastings. 

“Ay, he and you love each other well. Speak out.” 

“ Prince Richard is a great reader of Italian lere. He 
saith that .those small states are treasuries of all experi- 
ence. From that lere Prince Richard would say to you 
— ‘ where a subject is so great as to be feared, and too 
much beloved to be destroyed, the king must remember 
how Tarpeia was crushed.” 

“I remember naught of Tarpeia, and I detect para- 
bles.” 

“ Tarpeia, sire (it is a story of old Rome), was crushed 
under the weight of presents. Oh, my liege,” continued 
Hastings, warming with that interest which an able man 
feels in his own superior art, “were I king for a year, by 
the end of it Warwick should be the most unpojnilar (and 
therefore the weakest) lord in^ England ! ” 

5 * 


54 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


“And how, 0 wise in thine own conceit?” 

“ Beau sire,'’ resumed Hastings, not heeding the re- 
buke — and strangely enough he proceeded to point out, 
as the means of destroying the earl’s influence, the very 
method that the archbishop had detailed to Montagu, as 
that which would make the influence irresistible and per- 
manent. — Beau sire," resumed Hastings, “Lord War- 
wick is beloved by the people, because they consider him 
maltreated ; he is esteemed by the people, because they 
consider him above all bribe ; he is venerated by the 
people, because they believe that in all their complaints 
and struggles he is independent (he alone) of the king. 
Instead of love, I would raise envy ; for instead of cold 
countenance I would heap him with grace. Instead of 
esteem and veneration I would raise suspicion, for I 
would so knit him to your house, that he could not stir 
hand or foot against you ; I would make his heirs your 
brothers. The Duke of Clarence hath married one 
daughter — wed the other to Lord Richard. Betroth 
your young princess to Montagu’s son, the representative 
of all the Neviles. The earl’s immense possessions must 
thus ultifnately pass to your own kindred. The earl him- 
self will be no longer a power apart from the throne, but 
a part of it. The barons will chafe against one who half 
ceases to be of their order, and yet monopolizes their 
dignities ; the people will no longer see in the earl their 
champion, but a king’s favorite and deputy. Neither 
barons nor people will flock to his banner.” 

“All this is well and wise,” said Edward, musing; 


65 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

“but meanwhile my queen’s blood — am I to reign in a 
solitude? — for look you, Hastings, you know well that, 
uxorious as fools have deemed me, I had purpose and 
design in the elevation of new families : I wished to raise 
a fresh nobility to counteract the pride of the old, and 
only upon new nobles can a new dynasty rely.” 

“ My lord, I will not anger you again ; but still, for 
awhile the queen’s relations will do well to retire.” 

“ Good night, Hastings,” interrupted Edward, abruptly, 
“my pillow in this shall be ray counsellor.” 

Whatever the purpose solitude and reflection might 
ripen in the king’s mind, he was saved from immediate 
decision by news, the next morning, of fresh outbreaks. 
The commons had risen in Loncolnshire and the county 
of Warwick ; and Anthony Woodville wrote word that, 
if the king would but show himself among the forces he 
had raised near Coventry, all the gentry around would 
rise against the rebellious rabble. Seizing advantage of 
these tidings, borne to him by his own couriers, and 
eager to escape from the uncertain soldiery quartered at 
Gluey, Edward, without waiting to consult even with the 
earl, sprang to horse, and his trumpets were the first 
signal of departure that he deigned to any one. 

This want of ceremony displeased the pride of War- 
wick ; but he made no complaint, and took his place by 
the king’s side, when Edward said, shortly, 

Dear cousin, this is a time that needs all our energies. 
I ride towards Coventry, to give head and heart to the 
raw recruits I shall find there : but I pray you and the 


5G 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


archbishop to use all means, in this immediate district, 
to raise fresh troops ; for at jour name armed men spring 
up from pasture and glebe, dyke and hedge. Join what 
troops you can collect in three days with mine at Coven- 
try, and, ere the sickle is in the harvest, England shall 
be at peace. God speed you I Ho 1 there, gentlemen, 
away ! — d franc etrier / ” 

Without pausing for reply — for he wished to avoid 
all questioning, lest Warwick might discover that it was 
to a Woodville that he was bound — the king put spurs 
to his horse, and, while his men were yet hurrying to and 
fro, rode on almost alone, and was a good mile out of 
the town before the force led by St. John and Raoul de 
Fulke, and followed by Hastings, who held no command, 
overtook him. 

“I misthink the king,’^ said Warwick, gloomily, “but 
my word is pledged to the people, and it shall be kept V’ 
“A man’s word is best kept when his arm is the 
strongest,” said the sententious archbishop; “yesterday, 
you dispersed an army ; to-day, raise one' I ” 

Warwick answered not, but, after a moment’s thought, 
beckoned to Marrnaduke. 

“ Kinsman,” said he, “ spur on, with ten of my little 
company, to join the king. Report to me if any of the 
Woodvilles be in his camp near Coventry.” 

“Whither shall I send the report?” 

“To my castle of Warwick!” 

Marrnaduke bowed his head, and, accustomed to the 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 6? 

brevity of the earl’s speech, proceeded to the task en- 
joined him. Warwick next summoned his second squire. 

“ My lady and her children,” said he, “ are on their 
way to Middleham. This paper will instruct you of 
their progress. Join them with all the rest of my troop, 
except ray heralds and trumpeters ; and say that I shall 
meet them ere long at Middleham.” 

‘‘ It is a strange way to raise an army,” said the arch- 
bishop, drily, “ to begin by getting rid of all the force one 
possesses ! ” 

“ Brother,” answered the earl, I would fain show my 
son-in-law, who may be the father of a line of kings, that 
a general may be helpless at the head of thousands, but 
that a man may stand alone who has the love of a na- 
tion.” 

“ May Clarence profit by the lesson ! Where is he all 
this while ? ” 

“Abed,” said the stout earl, with a slight accent of 
disdain ; and then, in a softer voice, he added — “youth 
is ever luxurious. Better the slow man than the false 
one.” 

Leaving Warwick to discharge the duty enjoined him, 
we follow the dissimulating king. 


68 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


i ‘ CHAPTER YI. V ‘ 

.r oil \ - ■ 

' What befalls King’ Edward^ on his escape from Olney. 

r As soon as Edward was' out of sight of the spire of 
Olney, he slackened his speed,' and beckoned Hastings to 
his side. • 

“ Dear Will,” said the king, “ I have thought over thy 
counsel, and will find the occasion to make experiment 
thereof. But, methinks, thou wilt agree with me, that 
concessions come best from a king who has an army of 
his own. ’Fore heaven! in the camp of a Warwick I 
have less power than a lieutenant I Now mark me. I 
go to head some recruits raised in haste near Coventry. 
The scene of contest ’must be in the northern counties. 
Wilt thou, for love of me, ride night, and day, thorough 
brake thorough^ brier, to Gloucester, on the borders ? 
Bid him march, if the Scot will let him, back to York ; 
and if he cannot himself quit the borders, let him send 
what men can be spared, under thy banner. Failing 
this, raise through Yorkshire all the men-at-arms thou 
canst collect. But, above all, see Montagu. Him and 
his army secure at all hazards. If he demur, tell him his 
son shall marry his king’s daughter, and wear the coronal 
of a duke. Ha ! ha ! a large bait for so large a fish ! I 
see this is no casual outbreak, but a general convulsion 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


59 


of the realm ; and the Earl of Warwick must not be the 
only man to smile or to frown back the angry elements ! ” 

“ In this, beau answered Hastings, “ you speak 

as a king and a warrior should, and I will do my best to 
assert your royal motto — ^ Modus et ordod If I can 
but promise that your highness has for awhile dismissed 
the Woodville lords, rely upon it, that ere two months 
I will place under yoiir truncheon an army worthy of the 
liege lord of hardy England.” 

“Go, dear Hastings, I trust all to thee I ” answered 
the king. 

The nobleman kissed his sovereign’s extended hand, 
closed his vizor, and, motioning to his body squire to 
follow him, disappeared down a green lane, avoiding such 
broarder thoroughfares as might bring him in contact 
with the officers left at Olney. 

In a small village near Coventry, Sir Anthony Wood- 
ville had collected about two thousand men ; chiefly com- 
posed of the tenants and vassals of the new nobility, who 
regarded the brilliant Anthony as their head. The 
leaders were gallant and ambitious gentlemen, as they 
who arrive at fortunes above their birth mostly are — but 
their vassals were little to be trusted. For in that day, 
clanship was still strong, and these followers had been 
bred in allegiance to Lancastrian lords, whose confiscated 
estates were granted to the Yorkist favorites. The shout 
that welcomed the arrival of the king was therefore feeble 
and lukewarm — and, disconcerted by so chilling a re- 
ception, he dismounted, in less elevated spirits than those 


60 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

in which he had left Olney, at the pavilion of his brother- 
in-law. 

The mourning-dress of Anthony, his countenance sad- 
dened by the barbarous execution of his father and 
brother, did not tend to cheer the king. 

But Woodville’s account of the queen’s grief and 
^ horror at the afflictions of her house, and of Jacquetta’s 
indignation at the foul language which the report of her 
practices put into the popular mouth, served to endear 
to the king’s mind the family that he considered nnduly 
persecuted. Even in the coldest breasts affection is fanned 
by opposition, and the more the queen’s kindred were 
assailed, the more obstinately Edward clung to them. 
By suiting his humor, by winking at his gallantries, by a 
submissive sweetness of temper, which soothed his own 
hasty moods, and contrasted with the rough pride of 
Warwick and the peevish fickleness of Clarence, Eliza- 
beth had completely wound herself into the king’s heart. 
And the charming graces, the elegant accomplishments 
of Anthony Woodville, were too harmonious with the 
character of Edward, who in all — except truth and 
honor — was the perfect model of the gentilhomme 
of the time, not to have become almost a necessary com- 
panionship. Indolent natures may be easily ruled but 

they grow stubborn when their comforts and habits are 
interfered with. And the whole current of Edward’s 
merry, easy life, seemed to him to lose flow and sparkle, 
if the faces he loved best were banished, or even clouded 
He was yet conversing with Woodville, and yet assuring 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


61 


Mill, that however he might temporize, he would neveF 
abandon the interests of the queen’s kindred — when a 
gentleman entered aghast, to report that the Lords St. 
John and de Fulke, on hearing that Sir Anthony Wood- 
ville Was in command of the forces, had, without eVen 
dismounting, left the camp, and carried with them their 
retainers, amounting to more than half of the little troop 
that rode from Olney. 

“ Let them go,” said Edward, frowning ; “a day shall 
dawn upon their headless tnlnks ! ” 

Oh, my king,” said Anthony, now Earl of Rivers — 
who, by far the least selfish of his house, was struck with 
remorse at the penalty Edward paid for his love marriage 
. — “ now that your highness can relieve me of my com- 
mand, let me retire from the camp. I would fain go a 
pilgrim to the shrine of Compostella, to pray for my 
father’s sins and my sovereign’s weal.” 

“ Let us first see what forces arrive from London,’ 
answered the king. “ Richard ere long will be on the 
march from the frontiers, and whatever Warwick’s resolves, 
Montagu, whose heart I hold in my hand, will bring his 
army to my side. Let us wait.” 

But the next day brought no reinforcements, nor the 
next ; and the king retired betimes to his tent, in much 
irritation and perplexity ; when, at the dead of the night 
he was startled from slumber by the tramp of horses, the 
sound of horns, the challenge of the sentinels — and, as 
he sprang from his couch, and hurried on his armor in 
alarm, the Earl of Warwick abruptly entered. Tlie earl’s 

11. —6 2 m 


62 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

face was stern, but calm and sad : and Edward’s brave 
heart beat loud as he gazed on his formidable subject. 

“King Edward,” said Warwick, slowly and mourn- 
fully, “ you have deceived me I I promised to the com- 
mons the banishment of the Woodvilles, and to a Wood- 
ville you have flown.” 

“Your promise was given to rebels, with whom no 
faith can be held ; and I passed from a den of mutiny to 
the camp of a loyal soldier.” 

“We will not now waste words, king,” answered War- 
wick. “ Please you to mount, and ride northward. The 
Scotch have gained great advantages on the marches. 
The Duke of Gloucester is driven backwards. All the 
Lancastrians in the North have risen. Margaret of Anjou 
is on the coast of Normandy,* ready to set sail at the 
first decisive victory of her adherents.” 

“ I am with you,” answered Edward ; “ and I rejoice 
to think that at last I may meet a foe. Hitherto it seems 
as if I had been chased by shadows Now may I hope to 
grasp the form and substance of danger and of battle.” 

“A steed prepared for your grace awaits you.” 

“ Whither ride we first ? ” 

“ To my castle of Warwick, hard by. At noon to- 
morrow all will be ready for our northward march.” 

Edward, by this time, having armed himself, strode 
from the tent into the open air. The scene was rtriking 
— the moon was extremely bright and the sky serene, but 


At this time, Margaret was at Harfleur. — Will. W7/re 


THE LAST OF THE BA 110 NS. 


63 


around the tent stood a troop of torch-bearers, and the 
red glare shone luridly upon the steel of the serried horse- 
men and the banners of the earl, in which the grim white 
bear was wrought upon an ebon ground, quartered with 
the dun bull, and crested in gold with the eagle of the 
Monthermers. Far as the king’s eye could reach, he saw 
but the spears of Warwick ; while a confused hum in his 
own encampment told that the troops Anthony Wood- 
ville had collected were not yet marshalled into order — 
Edward drew back. 

“And the Lord Anthony of Scales and Rivers,” said 
he, hesitatingly. 

“ Choose, king, between the Lord Anthony of Scales 
and Rivers, and Richard Nevile!” answered Warwick, 
in a stern whisper. 

Edward paused, and at that moment, Anthony himself 
emerged from his tent (which adjoined the king’s), in 
company with the Archbishop of York, who had ridden 
hither in Warwick’s train. 

“My liege,” said that gallant knight, putting his knee 
to the ground, “ I have heard from the archbishop the 
new perils that await your highness, and I grieve sorely 
that, in this strait, your couneillors deem it meet to forbid 
me the glory of fighting or falling by your side I I know 
too well the unhappy odium attached to my house and 
name in the northern parts, to dispute the policy which 
ordains ray aosence from your armies. Till these feuds 
are over, I crave your royal leave to quit England, and 
perform my pilgrimage to the sainted shrine of Coin- 
posttdla. ” 


84 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

A burning flush passed ovei‘ the king’s filee, as he raised 
his brother-in-law, and clasped him to his bosom. 

“ Go or stay, as you will, Anthony ! ” said he, “ but 
let these proud men know that neither time nor absence 
can tear you from your king’s heart. But envy must have 
its hour I Lord Warwick, I attend you ; but, it seems, 
rather as your prisoner than your liege.” 

Warwick made no answer: the king mounted, and 
waved his hand to Anthony. The torches tossed to and 
fro, the horns sounded, and in a silence, moody and re- 
sentful on either part, Edward and his terrible subject 
rode on to the towers of Warwick. 

The next day the king beheld, with astonishment, the 
immense force that, in a time so brief, the earl had col- 
lected round his standard. 

From his casement, which commanded that lovely slope 
on which so many a tourist now gazes with an eye that 
seeks to call back the stormy and chivalric past, Edward 
beheld the earl on his renowned black charger, reviewing 
the thousands that, file on file, and rank on rank, lifted 
pike and lance in the cloudless sun. 

“After alV’ muttered the king, “I can never make a 
new noble a great baron ! And if in peace a great baron 
overshadows the throne, in time of war a great baron is 
a throne’s bulwark I Gramercy, I had been mad to cast 
away such an array — an army fit for a king to lead! 
They serve Warwick now — but Warwick is less skilful in 
the martini art than T — and soldiers, like hounds, love 
best the most dexterous huntsman.” 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


65 


CHAPTER YII. 

! 

How King Edward arrives at the Castle of Middleham. 

On the ramparts of feudal Middleham, in the same 
place where Anne had confessed to Isabel the romance 
of her childish love, again the sisters stood, awaiting the 
coming i of their father and the king. They had only, 
with their mother, reached Middleham two days before, 
and the preceding night an advanced guard .had arrived 
at the castle to announce the approach of the earl with 
his royal comrade and visitor. From the heights, already^ 
they beheld the long array winding in glorious order to- 
wards the mighty pile. 

Look ! exclaimed Isabel, look ! already methinks 
I-see the white steed of Clarence. Yes ! it is he I it is 
my George — my husband! The banner borne before, 
shows his device.” 

Ah ! happy Isabel ! ” said Anne, sighing, “ what rap- 
ture to await the coming of him one loves I” 

‘'My sweet Anne,” returned Isabel, passing her arm 
tenderly round her sister’s slender waist, “ when thou hast 
conquered the vain folly of thy childhood, thou wilt find 
a Clarence of thine own. And yet,” added the young 
duchess, smiling, “it must be the opposite of a Clarence 
to be to thy heart what a Clarence is to mine. I love 
George’s gay humor— thou lovest a melancholy brow. I 
6 * ^ 


66 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


love that charming weakness which supples to my woman 
will — thou lovowst a proud nature that may command thine 
own. I do not respect George less, because I know my 
mind stronger than his own ; but thou (like my gentle 
mother) wouldst have thy mate, lord and chief in all 
things, and live from his life as the shadow from the sun. 
But where left you our mother ? ” 

“ In the oratory, at prayer I ” 

“She has been sad of late.” 

“ The dark times darken her ; and she ever fears the 
king’s falseness or caprice will stir the earl up to some 
rash emprise. My father’s letter, brought last night to 
her, contains something that made her couch sleepless.” 

“ Ha 1 ” exclaimed the duchess, eagerly, “ my mother 
confides in thee more than me. Saw you the letter ?” 

“No.” 

“ Edward will make himself unfit to reign,” said Isabel, 
abruptly. “ The barons will call on him to resign ; and 
then — and then, Anne — -sister Anne, — Warwick’s daugh- 
ters cannot be born to be simple subjects ! ” 

“Isabel, God temper your ambition 1 Oh ! curb it 

crush it down ! Abuse not your influence with Clarence. 
Let not the brother aspire to the brother’s crown.” 

“ Sister, a king’s diadem covers all the sins schemed in 
the head that wins it I ” 

As the duchess spoke, her eyes flashed and her form 
dilated. Her beauty seemed almost terrible. 

The gentle Anne "gazed and shuddered; but ere she 
found words to rebuke, the lovely shape of the countess- 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


67 


mother was seen moving slowly towards them. She was 
dressed in her robes of state to receive her kingly guest ; 
the vest fitting high to the throat, where it joined the 
ermine tippet, and thickly sown with jewels ; the sleeves 
tight, with the second or over sleeves, that, loose and 
large, hung pendent and sweeping even to the ground ; 
and the gown, velvet of cramousin, trimmed with ermine, 
made a costume not less graceful than magnificent, and 
which, where compressed, set off the exquisite symmetry 
of a form still youthful, and where flowing, added majesty 
to a beauty naturally rather soft and feminine than proud 
and stately. As she approached her children, she looked 
rather like their sister than their mother, as if Time, at 
least, shrunk from visiting harshly one for whom such 
sorrows were reserved I 

The face of the countess was so’ sad in its aspect of 
calm and sweet resignation, that even the proud Isabel 
was touched ; and kissing her mother’s hand, she asked, 
If any ill tidings preceded her father’s coming ? ” 

“ Alas, my Isabel, the times themselves are bad tidings ! 
Your youth scarcely remembers the days when brother 
fought against brother, and the son’s sword rose against 
Iht father’s breast. But I, recalling them, tremble to 
hear the faintest murmur that threatens a civil war.” 
She paused, and forcing a smile to her lips, added, “Our 
woman fears must not, however, sadden our lords with an 
unwelcome countenance ; for men, -returning to their 
heartns, nave a right to a wife’s smiTe ; and so, Isabel, 
thou and I, wives both, must forget the morrow in to-day. 


68 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

Hark! the trumpets sound near and nearer — let us to 
the hall.” 

Before, however, they had reached the castle, a shrill 
blast rang at the outer gate. The portcullis was raised ; 
the young Duke of Clarence, with a bridegroom’s impa- 
tience, spurred alone through the gloomy arch, and Isabel, 
catching sight of his countenance, lifted towards the 
ramparts, uttered a cry and waved her hand. Clarence 
heard and saw, leapt from his steed, and had clasped 
Isabel to his breast, almost before Anne or the countess 
bad recognized the new comer. 

Isabel, however, always stately, recovered in an instant 
from the joy she felt at her lord’s return, and gently 
escaping his embrace, she glanced with a blush towards 
the battlements crowded with retainers ; Clarence caught 
and^ interpreted the look. 

“Well, helle mere,’’^ he said, turning to the countess — : 
“and if yon faithful followers do witness with what glee 
a fair bride inspires a returning bridegroom — is there 
cause for shame in this cheek of damascene ? ” 

“Is the king still with my father?” asked Isabel has- 
tily, and interrupting the countess’s reply. 

“ Surely, yes ; and hard at hand. And pardon me that 
I forgot, dear lady, to say that my royal brother has an- 
nounced his intention of addressing the principal officers 
of the army in Middlehara Hall. This news gave me fair 
excuse for hastening to you and Isabel.” 

“All is prepared-for his highness,” said the countess. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONg. 


61 > 


“ save our own homage. We must quicken our steps — 
come, Anne.’^ 

The countess took the arm of the younger sister, while 
the duchess made a sign to Clarence, — he lingered be- 
hind, and Isabel drawing him aside, asked — 

“Is my father reconciled to Edward 

“No — nor Edward to him.” ; , 

“ Good I The king has no soldiers of his own amidst 
yon armed train ? ” 

“ Save a few of Anthony Woodville’s recruits — none. 
Raoul de Fulke and St. John have retired to their towers 
in sullen dudgeon. But have you no softer questions for 
my return, hella 

“Pardon me — many — my kingy 

“What other name should the successor of Edward 
IT, bear?” 

“Isabel,” said Clarence, in great emotion, “what is it 
you would tempt me to ? Edward lY. spares the life of 
Henry YI., and shall Edward lY.’s brother conspire 
against his own?” 

“ Saints forefend ! ” exclaimed Isabel — “can you so 
wrong my honest meaning? 0 George I can you con- 
ceive that your wife — Warwick’s daughter — harbors the 
thought of murder ? No I surely the career- before you 
seems plain and spotless ! Can Edward reign ? Deserted 
by the barons, and wearing away even my father’s long 
credulous love ; odious I except in luxurious and unwar- 
like London, to all the commons — how reign ? What 


70 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


other choice left? none — save Henry of Lancaster or 
George of York.’^ 

“ Were it so,” said the v/eak duke, and yet he added, 
falteringly — “believe me, Warwick meditates no such 
changes in my favor.” 

“Time is a rapid ripener,” answered Isabel — “but 
hark, they are lowering the drawbridge for our guests.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

The Ancieuts rightly gave to the Goddess of Eloquence — a Crown. 

The lady of Warwick stood at the threshold of the 
porch, which, in the inner side of the broad quadrangle, 
admitted to the apartments used by the family ; and, 
heading the mighty train that, line after line, emerged 
through the grim jaws of the arch, came the earl on his 
black destrier, and the young king. 

Even where she stood, the anxious Chatelaine beheld 
the moody and gloomy air with which Edward glanced 
around the strong walls of the fortress, and up to the 
battlements that bristled with the pikes and sallets of 
armed men, who looked on the pomp below, in the silence 
of military discipline. 

“ Oh, Anne I ” she whispered to her youngest daugh- 
ter, who stood beside her — “what are women worth in 
the strife of men ? Would that our smiles could heal 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


*71 


the wounds which a taunt can make in a proud man’s 
heart ! ” 

Anne, affected and interested by her mother’s words, 
and with a secret curiosity to gaze upon the man who 
ruled on the throne of the prince she loved, came nearer 
and more in front, and suddenly, as he turned his head, 
the king’s regard rested upon her intent eyes and bloom- 
ing face. ' 

“Who is that fair donzell, cousin of Warwick?” he 
asked. 

“My daughter, sire.” 

“Ah I your youngest I — I have not seen her since she 
was a child.” 

Edward reined in his charger, and the earl threw him- 
self from his selle, and held the king’s stirrup to dismount. 
But he did so with a haughty and unsmiling visage. “ I 
would be the first, sire,” said he, with a slight emphasis, 
and as if excusing to himself his condescension — “to 
welcome to Middleham the son of Duke Richard.” 

“J^nd your suzerain, my lord earl,” added Edward, 
with no less proud a meaning, and leaning his hand 
lio-htly on Warwick’s shoulder, he dismounted slowly. 
“ Rise, lady,” he said, raising the countess, who knelt at 

the porch “ and you too, fair demoiselle. Pardieu, — 

we envy the knee that hath knelt to ?/ow.” So saying, 
with royal graciousness, he took the countess’s hand, 
and thev entered the hall as the musicians, in the gallery 
raised above, rolled forth their stormy welcome. 


7^ TJIE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

The archbishop, who had followed close to Warwick 
and the king, whispered now to his brother — 

“ Why would Edward address the captains ? ” 

“I know not.’^ 

“ He hath paade himself familiar with many in the 
march.” 

“ Familiarity with a steel casque better bcQonies a king 
than waisall with a greasy flat-cap.” 

“ You do not fear lest he seduce from the White Bear 
its retainers ? ” 

“As well fear that he can call the stars from their 
courses around the sun.” 

While these words were interchanged, the countess 
conducted the king to a throne-chair, raised upon the 
dais, by the side of which were placed two seats of state, 
and, from the dais, at the same time, advanced the Duke 
and Duchess of Clarence, The king prevented their 
kneeling, and kissed Isabel slightly and gravely on the 
forehead, “ Thus, noble lady, I greet the entrance of the 
Duchess of Clarence into the royalty of England.^’ 

Without pausing for reply, he passed on and seated 
himself on the throne, while Isabel and her husband took 
possession of the state chairs on either hand. At a ges- 
ture of the king’s, the countess and Anne placed them- 
selves on seats less raised, but still upon the dais. But 
now as Edward sat, the hall grew gradually full of lords 
and knights who commanded in Warwick’s train, while 
the earl and the archbishop stood mute in the centre, tot 


THE LAST OP THE BAHONS. 73 

one armed cap-ci-pie, leaning on his sword, the other with 
his arms folded in his long robes. 

The king’s eye, clear, steady,, and majestic, roved round 
that martial audience, worthy to be a monarch’s war- 
council, and not one of whom marched under a monarch’s 
banner ! Their silence, their discipline, the splendor of 
their arms, the greater splendor of their noble names, 
contrasted painfully with the little mutinous camp of 
Olney, and the surly, untried recruits of Anthony Wood- 
ville. But Edward, whose step, whose form, whose 
aspect, proclaimed the man conscious of his rights to be 
lord of all, betrayed not to those around him the kingly 
pride, the lofty grief that swelled within his heart. Still 
seated, he raised his left hand to command silence ; with 
the right he replaced his plumed cap upon his brow. 

“Lords and gentlemen,” he said (arrogating to him- 
self at once, as a thing of course, that gorgeous follow- 
ing), “ we have craved leave of our host to address to 
you some words — words which it pleases a king to utter, 
and which may not be harsh to the ears of a loyal sub- 
ject. Nor will we, at this great current of unsteady for- 
tune, make excuse, noble ladies, to you, that we speak of 
war to knighthood, which is ever the sworn defender of 
the daughter and the wife the daughters and the wife 
of our cousin, Warwick, have too much of hero-blood in 
their blue veins to grow pale at the sight of heroes. 
Comrades in arms ! thus far towards our foe upon the 
frontiers we have marched, without a sword drawn or an 
arrow launched from an archer’s bow. We believe tliat 


II.— 7 


T4 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


a blessing settles on the head of a true king, and that the 
trumpet of a good angel goes before his path, announc- 
ing the victory which awaits him. Here, in the hall of 
the Earl of Warwick, our captain-general, we thank you 
for your cheerful countenance, and your loyal service ; 
and here, as befits a king, we promise to you those honors 
a king alone worthily can bestow.” He paused, and* his 
keen eye glanced from chief to chief as he resumed : “ We 
are informed that certain misguided and traitor lords 
have joined the Rose of Lancaster. Whoever so doth 
is attainted, life and line, evermore I His lands and dig- 
nities are forfeit to enrich and to ennoble the men who 
strike for me. Heaven grant I may have foes eno’ to 
reward’ all my friends ! To every baron who owns Edward 
lY. king (ay, and not king in name — king in banquet 
and in bower — but leader and captain in the war), I trust 
to give a new barony — to every knight a new knight’s 
fee — to every yeoman a hyde of land — to every soldier a 
year’s pay. What more I can do, let it be free for any 
one to suggest — for my domains of York are broad, and 
my heart is larger still ! ” 

A murmur of applause and reverence went round. 
Yowed, as those warriors were, to the earl, they felt that 
A MONARCH was amongst them. 

“ What say you, then ? We are ripe for glory. Three 
days will we halt at Middleham, guest to our noble 
subject.” 

“Three days, sire I” repeated Warwick, in a voice of 
surprise. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


75 


“ Yes ; and this, fair cousin, and ye, lords and gentle- 
men, is my reason for the delay. I have despatched Sir 
William, Lord de Hastings, to the Duke of Gloucester, 
with command to join us here — (the archbishop started, 
but instantly resumed his earnest placid aspect) — to the 
Lord Montagu, Earl of Northumberland, to muster all 
the vassals of our shire of York. As three streams that 
dash into the ocean, shall our triple army meet and rush 
to the war. Not even, gentlemen, not even to the great 
Earl of Warwick will Edward lY. be so beholden for 
roiaulme and renown, as to march but a companion to 
the conquest. If ye were raised in Warwick’s name, not 
mine — why, be it so ! I envy him such friends; but I 
will have an army of mine own, to show mine English 
soldiery how a Plantagenet battles for his crown. Gen- 
tlemen, ye are dismissed to your repose. In three days 
we march ! and if any of you know in these fair realms 
the man, be he of York or Lancaster, more fit to com- 
mand brave subjects than he who now addresses you, I 
say to that man — turn rein, and leave us I Let tyrants 
and cowards enforce reluctant service, my crown was won 
by the hearts of my people ! Girded by those hearts, let 
me reign — or, mourned by them, let me fall I So God 
an l St. George favor me as I speak the truth I 

And as the king ceased, he uncovered his head, and 
kissed the cross of his sword. A thrill went through the 
audience. Many were there, disaffected to his person, 
and whom Warwick’s influence alone could have roused 
to arms ; but, at the close of an address, spirited and 


76 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

foyal in itself, and borrowing thousand-fold effect by the 
voice and mien of the speaker, nO feeling but that of 
enthusiastic loyalty, of almost tearful admiration, was left 
in those steel-clad breasts. 

As the king lifted on high the cross of his sword, every 
blade leapt from its scabbard, and glittered in the air ; 
and the dusty banners in the hall Waved, as to a mighty 
blast, when, amidst the rattle of armor, burst forth the 
universal cry— “ Long live Edward lY. ! Long live the 
king I ” 

The sweet countess, even amidst the excitement, kepi 
her eyes anxiously fixed on Warwick, whose countenance, 
however, shaded by the black plumes of his casque, though 
the vizor was raised, revealed nothing of his mind. Her 
daughters were more powerfully affected ; for Isabels 
intellect was not so blinded by her ambition, but that the 
kingliness of Edward forced itself upon her with a might 
and solemn weight, which cruslied, for the moment, her 
aspiring hopes — Was this the man unfit to reign ? This 
the man voluntarily to resign a crown ? This the man 
whom George of Clarence, without fratricide, could suc- 
ceed ? No ! — there, spoke the soul of the First and the 
Third Edward ! There, shook the mane, and '.here, 
glowed the eye, of the indomitable lion of the august 
Plantagenets I And the same conviction, rousing softer 
and holier sorrow, sate on the heart of Anne : she saw, 
as for the first time, clearly before her, the awful foe with 
whom her ill-omened and beloved prince had to struggle 
for his throne. In contrast beside that form, in the prime 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 17 

of manly youth — a giant in its strength, a god in fits 
beauty — rose the delicate shape of the melancholy boy 
who, afar in exile, coupled in his dreams the sceptre and 
the bride ! By one of those mysteries which magnetism 
seeks’ to explain, in the strong intensity of her emotions, 
in the tremor of her shaken nerves, fear seemed to grow 
prophetic. A stream as of blood rose up from the dizzy 
floors. The image of her young prince, bound and 
friendless, stood before the throne of that warrior-king. 
In the waving glitter of the countless swords raised on 
high, she saw the murderous blade against the boy-heir 
of ‘ Lancaster descend — descend I Her passion, her 
terror, at the spectre which fancy thus evoked, seized 
and overcame her ; and ere the last hurrah sent its 
hollow echo to the rafted roof, she sank from her chair 
to the ground, hueless and insensible as the dead. 

The king had not ' without design permitted the un- 
wonted presence of the women in this warlike audience. 
Partly because he was not unaware of the ambitious 
spirit of Isabel, partly because he counted on the affec- 
tion shown to his boyhood by the countess, who was said 
to have singular influence over her lord, but principally 
because in such a presence he trusted to avoid all discus- 
sion and all questioning, and to leave the effect of his 
eloquence, in which he excelled all his contemporaries, 
Gloucester^alone excepted, single and unimpaired ; and, 
therefore, as he rose, and returned with a majestic bend 
the acclamation of the warriors, his eye now turned to- 
7 ♦ 2n 


*18 


THE LA8T OF THE BARONS. 


wards the chairs where the ladies sat, and he was the 
lirst to perceive the swoon of the fair Anne. 

With the tender grace that always characterized his 
service to women, he descended promptly from his throne, 
and raised the lifeless form in his stalwart arms ; and 
Anne, as he bent over her, looked so strangely lovely, in 
her marble stillness, that even in that hour a sudden 
thrill shot through a heart always susceptible to beauty, 
as the harp-string to the breeze. 

“ It is but the heat, lady,” said he to the alarmed 
countess, “ and let me hope that interest which my fair 
kinswoman may take in the fortunes of Warwick and of 
York, hitherto linked together ” 

“May they ever be so I” said Warwick, who, on see- 
ing his daughter’s state, had advanced hastily to the 
dais ; and, moved by the king’s words, his late speech, 
the evils that surrounded his throne, the gentleness shown 
to the beloved Anne, forgetting resentment and ceremony 
alike, he held out his mailed hand. The king, as he re- 
signed Anne to her mother’s arras, grasped with soldierly 
frankness, and with the ready wit of the cold intellect 
which reigned beneath the warm manner, the hand thus 
extended, and holding still that iron gauntlet in his own 
ungloved and jewelled fingers, he advanced to the verge 
of the dais, to which, in the confusion occasioned by 
Anne’s swoon, the principal officers had cr.owded, and 
cried aloud — 

“ Behold I Warwick and Edward, thus hand in hand, 
as they stood when the clarions sounded the charge at 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


79 


Towton ! and that link, what swords, forged on a mortalV 
anvil, can rend or sever?” 

In an instant every knee, there, knelt ; and Edward 
exultingly beheld, that what before had been allegiance 
to the earl was now only homage to the king. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Wedded Confidence and Love — The Earl and the Prelate — The 

Prelate and the King — Schemes — Wiles — And the Birth of a 

dark Thought destined to eclipse a Sun. 

While, preparatory to the banquet, Edward, as was 
then the daily classic custom, relaxed his fatigues, mental 
or bodily, in the hospitable bath, the archbishop sought 
the closet of the earl. 

“Brother,” said he, throwing himself with some petu- 
lance into the only chair the room, otherwise splendid, 
contained — “when you left me, to seek Edward in the 
camp of Anthony Woodville, what was the understanding 
between us ? ” 

“ I know of none,” answered the earl, who, having 
doffed his armor, and dismissed his squires, leaned 
thoughtfully against the wall, dressed for the banquet, 
with the exception of the short surcoat, which lay glitter- 
ing on the tabouret. 

“ You know of none ? Reflect ! Have you brought 
hither Edward as a guest or as a prisoner?” 


80 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


The earl knit his brows — “A prisoner, archbishop!” 

The prelate regarded him with a cold smile. 

“ Warwick, you who would deceive no other man, now 
seek to deceive yourself.” The earl drew back, and his 
hardy countenance grew a shade paler. The prelate re- 
sumed — “You have carried Edward from his camp, and 
severed him from his troops; you have placed him in the 
midst of your own followers — you have led him chafing 
and resentful all the way, to this impregnable keep ; and 
you now pause, amazed by the grandeur of your captive ; 
a man who leads to his home a tiger — a spider who has 
entangled a hornet in its web! — ” 

“Nay, reverend brother,” said the earl calmly, “ye 
churchmen never know what passes in the hearts of those 
who feel and do not scheme. When I learned that the 
king had fled to the Woodvilles — that he was bent upon 
violating the pledge given in his name to the insurgent 
commons ; I vowed that he should redeem my honor and 
his own, or that for ever I would quit his service. And 
here, within these walls which sheltered his childhood, I 
trusted, and trust still, to make one last appeal to his 
better reason.” 

“ For all that, men now, and history hereafter, will 
consider Edward as your captive.” 

“ To living men, my words and deeds can clear them- 
selves; and as for history, let clerks and scholars fool- 
themselves in the lies of parchment ! He who has acted 
history, despises the gownsmen who sit in cloistered ease, 
and write about what they know not.” The earl paused, 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


81 


and then continued- — “I confess, however, that I have 
had a scheme. I have wished to convince the king how 
little his mushroom lords can bestead him in the storm ; 
and that he holds his crown only from his barons and his 
people.’’ 

“That is, from the Lord Warwick 1” 

“ Perhaps I am the personation of both seignorie and 
people ; but I design this solely for his welfare. Ah, the 
gallant prince — how well he bore himself to-day!” 

“Ay, when stealing all hearts from thee to him.” 

“And, Vive Dieu, I never loved him so well as when 
he did I Methinks it was for a day like this that I reared 
his youth and achieved his crown. Oh, priest — priest, 
thou mistakest me. I am rash, hot, haughty, hasty ; and 
I love not to bow my knees to a man because they call 
him king, if his life be vicious, and his word be false. 
Butj could Edward be ever as to-day, then indeed should 
I hail a sovereign whom a baron may reverence and a 
soldier serve ! ” 

Before the archbishop could reply, the door gently 
opened, and the countess appeared. Warwick seemed 
glad of the interruption ; he turned quickly — “And how 
fares my child ? ” 

“ Recovered from her strange swoon, and ready to 
smile at thy return. Oh, Warwick, thou art reconciled 
to the king I ” 

“ That glads thee, sister ? ” said the archbishop. 

“Surely. Is it not for my lord’s honor?” 

F 


82 THE LAST OF THE BARONS, 

“ May he find it so I ” said the prelate, and he left the 
room. 

“My priest-brother is chafed,” said the earl, smiling. 

“ Pity, he was not born a trader, he would have made a 
shrewd hard bargain. — Yerily, onr priests burn the Jews 
out of envy ! Ah, rri’amie, how fair thou art to-day 1 
Methinks even Isabel’s cheek less blooming.” And the 
warrior drew the lady towards him and smoothed her 
hair, and tenderly kissed her brow. “My letter vexed 
thee, I know, for thou lovest Edward, and blamest me 
not for my love to him. It is true that he hath paltered 
with me, and that I had stern resolves, not against his 
crown, but to leave him to his fate, and in these halls to 
resign my charge. But while he spoke, and while he 
looked, methought I saw his mother’s face, and heard his 
dear father’s tones, and the past rushed over me, and all 
wrath was gone. Sonless myself, why would he not be 
my son ? ” The earl’s voice trembled, and the tears stood 
in his dark eyes. 

“ Speak thus, dear lord, to Isabel, for I fear her over- 
vaulting spirit ” 

“Ah, had Isabel been his wife ! ” he paused and moved 
away. Then, as if impatient to escape the thoughts that 
tended to an ungracious recollection, he added — “ and 
now, sweetheart, these slight fingers have ofttiraes buckled 
on my mail, let them place on my breast this badge of 
St. George’s chivalry; and, if angry thoughts return, it 
shall remind me that the day on which I wore it first, 
Kicliard of York said to his young Edward, ‘Look to 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


83 


that star, boy, if ever, in cloud and trouble, thou wouldst 
learn what safety dwells in the heart which never knew 
deceit.’” 

During the banquet, the king, at whose table sat only 
the Duke of Clarence and the earl’s family, was gracious 
as day to all, but especially to the Lady Anne, attributing 
her sudden illness to some cause not unflattering to him- 
self ; her beauty, which somewhat resembled that of the 
queen, save that it had more advantage of expression 
and of youth, was precisely of the character he most ad- 
mired. Even her timidity, and the reserve with which 
she answered him, had their charms ; for, like many men, 
themselves of imperious nature and fiery will, he preferred 
even imbecility in a woman to whatever was energetic 
or determined ; and hence perhaps his indifiference to the 
more dazzling beauty of Isabel. After the feast, the 
numerous demoiselles, high-born and fair, who swelled 
the more than regal train of the countess, were assembled 
in the long gallery, which was placed in the third story 
of the castle, and served for the principal state apart- 
ment. The dance began ; but Isabel excused herself 
from the pavon, and the king led out the reluctant and 
melancholy Anne. 

Tlie proud Isabel, who had never forgiven Edward’s 
slight to herself, resented deeply his evident admiration 
of her sister, and conversed apart with the archbishop, 
whose subtle craft easily drew from her lips confessions 
of an ambition higher even than his own. He neither 
encouraged nor dissuaded : he thought there were things 


84 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


more impossible than the accession of Clarence to the 
throne, but he was one who never plotted, — save for him- 
self and for the church. 

As the revel waned, the prelate approached the earl, 
who, with that remarkable courtesy which charmed those 
below his rank, and contrasted with his haughtiness to 
his peers, had well played amongst his knights the part 
of host, and said, in a whisper, “Edward is in a happy 
mood — ^let us lose it not. Will you trust me to settle all 
differences, ere he sleep ? Two proud men never can 
agree without a third of a gentler temper.” 

“You are right,” said Warwick, smiling, “yet the 
danger is, that I should rather concede too much, than 
be too stubborn. But look you ; all I demand is, satis- 
faction to mine own honor, and faith to the army I dis- 
banded in the king’s name.” 

muttered the archbishop, as he turned away, 
“but that all is everything to provoke quarrel for you, 
and nothing to bring power to me.^” 

The earl and the archbishop attended the king to his 
chamber, and after Edward was served with the parting 
refection, or livery, the earl said, with his most open 
smile — “ Sire, there are yet affairs between us ; whom 
will you confer with me or the archbishop?” 

“ Oh ! the archbishop, by all means, fair cousin,” cried 
Edward, no less frankly ; “ for if you and I are left alone, 
the Saints help both of us ! — when flint and steel meet, 
fire flies, and the house may burn.” 

The earl half smiled at the candor — half sighed at the 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


85 


levity — of the royal answer, and silently left the room. 
The king, drawing round him his loose dressing robe, 
threw himself upon the gorgeous coverlid of the bed, and 
lying at lazy length, motioned to the prelate to seat him- 
self at the foot. The archbishop obeyed. Edward 
raised himself on his elbow, and, by the light of seven 
gigantic tapers, set in sconces of massive silver, the 
priest and the king gravely gazed on each other, without 
speaking. 

At last Edward, bursting into his hale, clear, silvery 
laugh, said, “ Confess, dear sir and cousin — confess that 
we are like two skilful masters of Italian fence, each fear- 
ing to lay himself open by commencing the attack.^’ 
“Gertes,” quoth the archbishop, “your grace over- 
estimates my vanity, in opining that I deemed myself 
equal to so grand a duello. If there were dispute be- 
tween us, I should only win by baring my bosom.” 

The king’s bow-like lip curved with a slight sneer, 
quickly replaced by a serious and earnest expression — - 
“ Let ns leave word-making, and to the point- George. 
Warwick is displeased because I will not abandon my 
wife’s kindred ; you, with more reason, because I have 

taken from your hands the chancellor’s great seal ” 

“ For myself, I humbly answer that your grace errs. 
I never coveted other honors than those of the church.” 

“ Ay,” said Edward, keenly examining the young 
prelate’s smooth face, “is it so? Yes, now I begin to 
comprehend thee. What offence have I given to the 
II. — 8 


86 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

church ? Have I suflfered the law too much to sleep 
against the Lollards? If so, blame Warwick.” 

“ On the contrary, sire, unlike other priests, I have 
ever deemed that persecution heals no schism. Blow not 
dying embers. Rather do I think of late that too much 
severity hath helped to aid, by Lollard bows and pikes, 
the late rising. My lady, the queen’s mother, unjustly 
accused of witchcraft, hath sought to clear herself, and 
perhaps too zealously, in exciting your grace against 
that invisible giant — ycleped heresy.” 

“Pass on,” said Edward. “It is not then indifference 
to the ecclesia.that you complain of. Is it neglect of the 
ecclesiastic? Ha! ha! you and I, though young, know 
the colors that make up the patchwork world. Arch- 
bishop, I love an easy life ; if your brother and his 
friends will but give me that, let them take all else. 
Again, I say, to the point, — I cannot banish my lady’s 
kindred, but I will bind your house still more to mine. 
I have a daughter, failing male issue, the heiress to my 
crown. I will betroth her to your nephew, my beloved 
Montagu’s son. They are children yet, but their ages 
not unsuited. And when I return to London, young 
Nevile shall be Duke of Bedford, a title hitherto reserved 
to the royal race.* Let that be a pledge of peace be- 

* And indeed there was but one Yorkist duke then in England 
out of the royal family — viz., the young boy. Buckingham, who 
afterwards vainly sought to bend the Ulysses bow of Warwick 
against Richard HI. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


87 


tween the queen’s mother, bearing the same honors, and 
the house of Nevile, to which they pass.” 

The cheek of the archbishop flushed with proud plea- 
sure ; he bowed his head, and Edward, ere he could 
answer, went on, — “Warwick is already so high that, 
pardie, I have no other step to give him save my throne 
itself, and God’s truth, I would rather be Lord Warwick 
than King of England ! But for you — listen — our only 
English cardinal is old and sickly — whenever he pass to 
Abraham’s bosom, who but you should have the suffrage 
of the holy college ? Thou knowest that I am somewhat 
in the good favor of the sovereign pontiff*. Command 
me to the utmost. Now, George, are we friends ?” 

The archbishop kissed the gracious hand extended to 
him, and, surprised to find, as by magic, all his schemes 
frustrated by sudden acquiescence in the objects of them 
all, his voice faltered with real emotion as he gave vent 
to his gratitude. But abruptly he checked himself, his 
brow lowered, and with a bitter remembrance of his bro- 
ther’s plain, blunt sense of honor, he said, “Yet, alas, 
my liege, in all this there is nought to satisfy our stub- 
born host.” 

“ By dear Saint George and my father’s head ! ” ex- 
claimed Edward, reddening, and starting to his feet, 
“what would the man have?” 

“You know,” answered the archbishop, “that War- 
wick’s pride is only roused when he deems his honor 
harmed. Unhappily as he thinks, by your grace’s full 
consent, he pledged himself to the insurgents of Olney 


88 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

to the honorable dismissal of the lords of the Woodville 
race. And unless this be conceded, I fear me that all 
else he will reject, and the love between ye can be but 
hollow I” __ 

Edward took but three strides across the chamber, and 
then halted opposite the archbishop, and laid both hands 
oil his shoulders, aSj looking him full in the face, he said, 
“Answer me frankly, am I a prisoner in these towers, or 
not ? 

“Not, sire.” 

“You palter with me, priest. I have been led hither 
against my will. I am almost without an armed retinue. 
I am at the earl’s mercy. This chamber might be my 
grave, and this couch my bed of death.” 

“ Holy mother ! Can you think so of Warwick ? Sire, 
you freeze ray blood.” 

“Well, then, if 1 refuse to satisfy Warwick’s pride, 
and disdain to give up loyal servants to rebel insolence, 
what will Warwick do ? Speak out, archbishop.” 

“ I fear me, sire, that he will resign all office, whether 
of peace or war. I fear me that the goodly army now 
at sleep within and around these walls will vanish into 
air, and that your highness will stand alone amidst new 
men, and against the disaffection of the whole land I ” 

Edward’s firm hand trembled. The prelate continued, 
with a dry, caustic smile — 

“ Sire, Sir Anthony Woodville, now Lord Rivers, has 
relieved you of all embarrassment; no doubt, my Lord 
Dorset and his kinsmen will be chevaliers enough to do 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


89 


the same. The Duchess of Bedford will 'but suit the 
decorous usage to retire awhile into privacy, to mourn 
her widowhood. And when a year is told, if these noble 
persons reappear at court, your word and the earl’s will 
at least have been kept.” 

“I understand thee,” said the king, half laughing; 
“but I have my pride as well as Warwick. To concede 
this point is to humble the conceder.” ■ ■ ’ 

“ I have thought how to soothe all things, and without 
humbling either party. Your grace’s mother is dearly 
beloved by Warwick, and revered by all. Since your 
marriage she hath lived- secluded from all -state affairs. 
As so nearly akin to Warwick — so deeply interested in 
your grace — she is a fitting mediator in all disputes. Be 
they left to her to arbitrate.” 

“Ah ! conning prelate, thou knowest how my proud 
mother hates the Woodvilles — thou knowest how her 
judgment will decide.” 

“ Perhaps so ; but at least your grace will be spared 
all pain and all abasement.” " ’ ' 

“Will Warwick consent to this?” 

“ I trust so.” 

“Learn, and report to me. Enough for to-night’s 
conference.” 

Edward was left alone, and his mind ran rapidly over 
the field of action open to him. 

“ I have half won the earl’s army,” he thought; “but 
it would be to lose all hold in their hearts again, if they 
Knew that these unhappy Woodvilles were the cause of a 
8 * 


90 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

Second breach between us. Certes, the Lancastrians are 
making strong head ! Certes, the times must be played 
with and appeased ! And yet these poor gentlemen love 
me after my own fashion, and not with the bear’s hug 
of that intolerable earl. How came the grim man by 
so fair a daughter ? Sweet Anne ! I caught her eye 
often fixed on me, and with a soft fear which my heart 
beat loud to read aright. Yerily, this is the fourth week 
I have passed without hearing a woman’s sigh I What 
marvel that so fair a face enamours me I Would that 
Warwick made her his ambassador; and yet it were all 
over with the Woodvilles if he did I These men know 
not how to manage me, and well-a-day, that task is easy 
eno’ to women I ” 

He laughed gaily to himself as he thus concluded his 
soliloquy, and extinguished the tapers. But rest did not 
come to his pillow ; and after tossing to and fro for some 
time in vain search for sleep, he rose and opened his 
casement to cool the air which the tapers had overheated. 
In a single casement, in a broad turret, projecting from 
an angle in the building — below the tower in which his 
chamber was placed, the king saw a solitary light burn 
ing steadily. A sight so unusual at such an hour sur- 
prised him. “ Peradventure, the wily prelate,” thought 
he. “ Cunning never sleeps.” But a second look showed 
him the very form that chased his slumbers. Beside the 
casement, which was partially open, he saw the soft 
profile of the Lady Anne; it was bent downwards ; and 
what with the clear moonlight, and the lamp within her 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS 


91 


chamber, he could 'see distinctly that she was weeping. 
“Ah ! Anne,” muttered the amorous king, “ would that I 
were by to kiss away those tears ! ” While yet the 
unholy wish murmured on his lip, the lady rose. The 
fair hand, that seemed almost transparent in the moon- 
light, closed the casement; and though the light lingered 
for some minutes ere it left the dark walls of the castle 
without other sign of life than the step of the sentry, 
Anne was visible no more. 

“ Madness — madness — madness I ” again murmured 
the king. “These Neviles are fatal to me in all ways — 
in hatred or in love I ” 


r »• 1 


! ,') -^0 'r?A 


ff V 


T' 


BOOK EIGHTH. 

IN WHICH THE LAST LINK BETWEEN KING-MAKER AND 
KING SNAPS ASUNDER. 


CHAPTER I. 

The Lady Anne visits the Court. 

It was some weeks after the date of the events last 
recorded. The storm that hung over the destinies of 
King Edward was dispersed for the hour, though the 
scattered clouds still darkened the horizon : the Earl of 
Warwick had defeated the Lancastrians on the frontier,* 
and their leader had perished on the scaffold, but Ed- 
ward’s mighty sword had not shone in the battle. Chained 
by an attraction yet more powerful than slaughter, he had 
lingered at Middleham, while Warwick led his army to 
York ; and when the earl arrived at the capital of Ed- 
ward’s ancestral duchy, he found that the able and active 
Hastings — having heard, even before he reached the 
Duke of Gloucester’s camp, of Edward’s apparent seizure 
by the earl and the march to Middleham — had deemed it 


* Croyl, 652. 


( 92 ) 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


93 


best to halt at York, and to summon in all haste a council 
of such of the knights and barons, as either love to the 
king or envy to Warwick could collect. The report was 
general that Edward was retained against his will at 
Middleham, and this rumor Hastings gravely demanded 
Warwick, on the arrival of the latter at York, to dis- 
prove. The earl, to clear himself from a suspicion that 
impeded all his military movements, dispatched Lord 
Montagu to Middleham, who returned not only with the 
king, but the countess and her daughters, whom Edward, 
under pretence of proving the complete amity that existed 
between Warwick and himself, carried in his train. The 
king’s appearance at York reconciled all differences. 
But he suffered Warwick to march alone against the 
enemy, and not till after the decisive victory, which left 
his reign for a while without an open foe, did he return 
to London. 

Thither the earl, by the advice of his friends, also re- 
paired, and in a council of peers, summoned for the pur- 
pose, deigned to refute the rumors still commonly circu- 
lated by his foes, and not disbelieved by the vulgar, 
whether of his connivance at the popular rising, or his 
forcible detention of the king at Middleham. To this, 
agreeably to the council of the archbishop, succeeded a 
solemn interview of the heads of the houses of York and 
Warwick, in which the once fair Rose of Raby (the 
king’s mother) acted as mediator and arbiter. The earl’s 
word to the commons at Olney was ratified. Edward 
consented to the temporary retirement of the Woodvilles, 

2o 


94 THELASTOFTHE BARONS. 

though the gallant Anthonyjet delayed his pilgrimage to 
<lompostella. The vanity of Clarence was contented by 
the government of Ireland, but, under various pretences, 
Edward deferred his brother’s departure to that important 
post. A general amnesty was proclaimed, a parliament 
summoned for the redress of popular grievances, and the 
betrothal of the king’s daughter to Montagu’s heir was 
proclaimed : the latteih received the title of Duke of Bed- 
ford ; and the whole land rejoiced in the recovered peace 
of the realm, the retirement of the Woodvilies, and the 
reconciliation of the young king with his all-beloved 
subject. Never had the power of the Neviles seemed so 
secure — never did the throne of Edward appear so 
stable. 

It was at this time that the king prevailed upon the 
Bari and his countess to permit the Lady Anne to accom- 
pany the Duchess of Clarence in a visit to the palace of 
the Tower. The queen had submitted so graciously to 
the humiliation of her family, that even the haughty 
Warwick was touched and softened ; and the visit of his 
daughter at such a time became a homage to Elizabeth, 
which it suited his chivalry to render. The public saw 
in this visit, which was made with great state and cere- 
mony, the probability of a new and popular alliance. 
The archbishop had suffered the rumor of Gloucester’s 
attachment to the Lady Anne to get abroad, and the 
young prince’s return from the North was anxiously ex- 
pected by the gossips of the day. 

It was on this occasion that Warwick showed his grati- 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 95 

tude for Marmadake Nevile’s devotion. My dear ana 
gallant kinsman,” he said, “ I forget not that when thou 
didst leave the king and the court for the discredited 
minister and his gloomy hall — I forget not that thou didst 
tell me of love to some fair maiden, which had not pros- 
pered according to thy merits. At least it shall not be 
from lack of lands, or of the gold spur, which allows the 
wearer to ride by the side of king or kaisar, that thou 
canst not choose thy bride as the heart bids thee. I pray 
thee, sweet cousin, to attend my child Anne to the court, 
where the king will show thee no ungracious countenance ; 
but it is just to recompense thee for the loss of thy post 
in his highness’s chamber. I hold the king’s commission 
to make knights of such as can pay the fee, and thy lands 
shall suffice for the dignity. Kneel down, and rise up, 
Sir Marmaduke Nevile, Lord of the Manor of Borrodaile, 
with its woodlands and its farms, and may God and our 
lady render thee puissant in battle and prosperous in 
love I ” 

Accordingly, in his new rank, and entitled to ruffle it 
with the bravest. Sir Marmaduke Nevile accompanied 
the earl and the Lady Anne to the palace of the Tower. 

As Warwick, leaving his daughter amidst the brilliant 
circle that suiTounded Elizabeth, turned to address the 
king, he said, with simple and unaffected nobleness — 

“ Ah, my liege, if you needed a hostage of my faith, 
think that my heart is near, for verily its best blood were 
less dear to me than that slight girl, — the likeness of her 
mother, when her lips first felt the tcmeh of mine!” 


96 THE LA. ST OP THE BARONS. 

Edward’s bold brow fell, and he blushed as he an- 
swered , — “ My Elizabeth will hold her as a sister. But, 
cousin, part you not now for the north ? ” 

“By your leave, I go first to Warwick.” 

“Ah ! you do not wish to approve of my seeming pre- 
parations against France ? ” 

“Nay, your highness is not in earnest. I promised 
the commons that you would need no supplies for so 
thriftless a war.” 

“ Thou knowest I mean to fulfil all thy pledges. But 
the country so swarms with disbanded soldiers, that it is 
politic to hold out to them a hope of service, and so let 
the clouds gradually pass away.” 

“Alack, my liege,” said Warwick, gravely, “ I suppose 
that a crown teaches the brow to scheme ; but hearty 
peace or open war seems ever the best to me.” 

Edward smiled, and turned aside. Warwick glanced 
at his daughter, whom Elizabeth flatteringly caressed, 
stifled a sigh, and the air seemed lighter to the insects 
of the court as his proud crest bowed beneath the door- 
way, and, with the pomp of his long retinue, he vanished 
from the scene. 

“And choose, fair Anne,” said the queen, “ choose 
from my ladies, whom you will have for your special 
train. We would not that your attendance should be 
less than royal.” 

The gentle Anne in vain sought to excuse herself from 
an honor at once arrogant and invidious, though too in- 
nocent to perceive the cunning so characteristic of the 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


91 


queen ; for, under the guise of a special compliment, 
Anne had received the royal request to have her female 
attendants chosen from the court, and Elizabeth now de- 
sired to force upon her a selection which could not fail 
to mortify those not preferred. But glancing timidly 
round the circle, the noble damsePs eye rested on one fair 
face, and in that face there was so much that awoke her 
own interest, and stirred up a fond and sad remembrance, 
that she passed involuntarily to the stranger’s side, and 
artlessly took her hand. The high-born maidens, grouped 
around, glanced at each other with a sneer, and sln’-^‘ 
back. Even the queen looke^^ ourpriacd, nut recovering 
herself, inclined her graciously, and said, “ Do we 
read your aright. Lady Anne, and would you 

this s’^ntlewoman. Mistress Sibyll Warner, as one of your 
chamber?” 

“ Sibyll ! ah, I knew that my memory failed me not,” 
murmured Anne ; and, after bowing assent to the queen, 
she said, “ Do you not also recall, fair demoiselle, our 
meeting, when children, long years ago ? ” 

“ Well, noble dame,”* answered Sibyll. And as Anne 
turned, with her air of modest gentleness, yet of lofty 
birth and breeding, to explain to the queen that she had 
met Sibyll in earlier years, the king approached to mono- 
polize his guest’s voice and ear. It seemed natural to all 
present that Edward should devote peculiar attention to 


* The title of Dame was at that time applied indiscriminately to 
ladies, whether married or single, if of high birth 

II. — 9 o 


98 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

the daughter of Warwick and the sister of the Duchess 
of Clarence ; and even Elizabeth suspected no guiltier 
gallantry the subdued voice, the caressing manner, 
which her handsome lord adopted throughout that day, 
even to the close of the nightly revel, — towards a de- 
moiselle too high (it might well appear) for licentious 
homage. 

But Anne herself, though too guileless to suspect the 
nature of Edward’s courtesy, yet shrunk from it in vague 
terror. All his beauty, all his fascination, could not root 
^rom her mind the remembrance of the exiled prince — 
nay, the wuL’ancy ot \vi*(5 qualities made her the more 
averse to him. It darkened the 'pT’Ospeets of Edward of 
Lancaster that Edward of York should woi^r so gracious 
and so popular a form. She hailed with delight Kour 
when she was conducted to her chamber, and dismissing 
gently the pompous retinue allotted to her, found her- 
self alone with the young maiden whom she had elected 
to her special service. 

“And you remember me, too, fair Sibyll ? ” said Anne, 
with her dulcet and endearing voice. 

“ Truly,, who would not ? for as. you, then, noble lady, 
glided apart from the other children, band in hand with 
the young prince, in whom all dreamed to see their future 
king — I heard the universal murmur of — a false pro- 
phecy ! ” 

“Ah I and of what ? ” asked Anne. 

“ That in the hand the prince clasped, with hip small 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


99 


rosy fingers — the hand of great Warwick’s daughter — 
lay the best defence of his father’s throne.” 

Anne’s breast heaved, and her small foot began to 
mark strange characters on the floor. 

‘‘ So,” she said, musingly, “ so even here, amidst a new 
court, you forget not Prince Edward of Lancaster. Oh, 
we shall find hours to talk of the past days. But how, 
if your childhood was spent in Margaret’s court, does 
your youth find a welcome in Elizabeth’s ? ” 

“Avarice and power had need of my father’s science. 
He is a scholar of good birth, but fallen fortunes — even 
now — and ever w^hile night lasts, he is at work. I be- 
longed to the train of her grace of Bedford, but when 
the duchess quitted the court, and the king retained my 
father in his own royal service, her highness the queen 
was pleased to receive me among her maidens. Happy 
that my father’s home is mine — who else could tend 
him ? ” 

“ Thou art his only child ? — He must love thee 
dearly ? ” 

“ Yet not as I love him — he lives in a life apart from 
all else that live. But, after all, peradventure it is sweeter 
to love than to be loved.” 

Anne, whose nature was singularly tender and woman-' 
like, was greatly affected by this answer ; she drew nearer 
to Sibyll ; she twined her arm round her slight form, and 
kissed her forehead. 

“ Shall I love thee, Sibyll ? ” she said, with a girl’s 
candid simplicity, “ and wilt thou love me ? ” 


100 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

“Ah, lady! there are so many to love thee; father, 
mother, sister — all the world ; — the very sun shines more 
kindly upon the great 1 ” 

“Nay I” said Anne, with that jealousy of a claim to 
suffering to which the gentler natures are prone, “ I may 
have sorrows from which thou art free. I confess to thee, 
Sibyll, that something, I know not how to explain, draws 
me strangely towards thy sweet face. Marriage has lost 
me my only sister — for since Isabel is wed, she is changed 
to me — would that her place were supplied by thee! 
Shall I steal thee from the queen, when I depart ? Ah ! 
my mother — at least thou wilt love her ! for, verily, to 
love' ray mother you have but to breathe the same air. 
Kiss me, Sibyll ? ” 

Kindness, of late, had been strange to Sibyll, especially 
from her own sex, onetof her own age ; it came like morn- 
ing upon the folded blossom. She threw her arms round 
the new friend that seemed sent to her from heaven ; she 
kissed Anne’s face and hands with grateful tears. 

“Ah ! ” she said, at last, when she could command a 
voice still broken with emotion — “ if I could ever serve — 
ever repay thee — though those gracious words were the 
last thy lips should ever deign to address to me ! ” 

Anne was delighted; she had never yet found one to 
protect ; she had never yet found one in whom thoroughly 
to confide. Gentle as her mother was, the distinction 
between child and parent was, even in the fond family she 
belonged to, so great in that day, that she could never 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


101 


have betrayed to the countess the wild weakness of her 
young heart. 

The wish to communicate — to reveal — is so natural to 
extreme youth, and in Anne that disposition was so in- 
creased by a nature at once open and inclined to lean on 
others, that she had, as we have seen, sought a confidant 
in Isabel ;^but with her, even at the first, she found but 
the half-contemptuous pity of a strong and hard mind ; 
and lately, since Edward’s visit to Middleham, the Duchess 
of Clarence had been so wrapt in her own imperious 
egotism and discontented ambition, that the timid Anne 
had not even dared to touch, with her, upon those secrets 
which it flushed her own bashful cheek to recall. And 
this visit to the court — this new, unfamiliar scene — this 
'estrangement from all the old accustomed affections, had 
produced in her that sense of loneliness which is so 
irksome, till grave experience of real life accustoms us 
to the common lot. So with the exaggerated and some- 
what morbid sensibility that belonged to her, she turned 
at once, and by impulse, to this sudden, yet graceful 
friendship. Here was one of her own age, one who had 
known sorrow, one whose voice and eyes charmed her, 
one who would not chide even folly, one, above all, who 
had seen her beloved prince, one associated with her 
fondest memories, one who might have a thousand tales 
to tell of the day when the outlaw-boy was a monarch’s 
heir. In the childishness of her soft years, she almost 
wept at another channel for so much natural tendernesa 
9 * 


102 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

It was half the woman gaining a woman-friend — half the 
child clinging to a new playmate. 

“Ah, Sibyll ! ” she whispered, “ do not leave me to- 
night — this strange place daunts me, and the figures on 
the arras seem so tall and spectre-like — and they say the 
old Tower is haunted — Stay, dear Sibyll ! ’’ 

And Sibyll stayed. 


CHAPTER II. 

The Sleeping Innocence — The Wakeful Crime. 

While these charming girls thus innocently conferred ; 
while, Anne’s sweet voice running ou in her artless 
fancies, they helped each other to undress ; while hand in 
hand they knelt in prayer by the crucifix in the dim 
recess ; while timidly they extinguished the light, and 
stole to rest ; while, conversing in whispers, growing 
gradually more faint and low, they sank into guileless 
sleep; — the unholy king paced his solitary chamber, 
parched with the fever of the sudden and frantic passion, 
that swept away from a heart, in which every impulse 
was a giant, all the memories of honor, gratitude, and 
law. 

The mechanism of this strong man’s nature was that 
almost unknown to the modern time ; it belonged to those 
earlier days which furnish to Greece the terrible legends 
Ovid has clothed in gloomy fire, which a similar civi- 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 103 , 

lization produced no less in the Middle Ages, whether of 
Italy or the North— that period when crime took a gran- 
deur from its excess — when power was so great and 
absolute, that its girth burst the ligaments of conscience 
— when a despot was but the incarnation of will — when 
honor was indeed a religion, but its faith was valor, and 
it wrote its decalogue with the point of a fearless sword. 

The youth of Edward lY. was as the youth of an 
ancient Titan — of an Italian Borgia; through its veins 
the hasty blood rolled as a devouring flame. This im- 
petuous and fiery temperament was rendered yet more 
fearful by the indulgence of every intemperance ; it fed 
on wine and lust : its very virtues strengthened its vices 
— its courage stifled every whisper of prudence — its in- 
tellect, uninured to all discipline, taught it to disdain 
every obstacle to its desires. Edward could, indeed, as 
we have seen, be false and crafty — a temporiser — a dissi- 
mulator — but it was only as the tiger creeps, the better 
to spring, undetected, on its prey. If detected, the 
cunning' ceased, the daring rose, and the mighty savage 
had fronted ten thousand foes, secure in its fangs and 
talons, its bold heart, and its deadly spring. Hence, 
with all Edwmrd’s abilities, the astonishing levities and 
• indiscretions of his younger years. It almost seemed, as 
w'e have seen him play fast and loose with the might of 
Warwick, and with that power, whether of barons or of 
people, which any other prince of half his talents would 
have trembled to arouse against an unrooted throne ; — 
it almost seemed as if he loved to provoke a danger, for 


101 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

the pleasure it gave the brain to baffle, or the hand to 
crush it. His whole nature coveting excitement, nothing 
was left to the beautiful, the luxurious Edward, already 
wearied with pomp and pleasure, but what was unholy 
and forbidden. In his court were a hundred ladies, per-- 
haps not less fair than Anne, at least of a beauty more 
commanding the common ^homage ; but these he had only, 
to smile on, with ease to win. No awful danger, no in- 
expiable guilt, attended those vulgar frailties, and there-- 
fore they ceased to tempt. But here the virgin guest, 
the daughter of his mightiest subject, the beloved trea- 
sure of the man whose hand had built a throne, whose 
word had dispersed an army, — here, the more the reasoi. 
warned, the conscience started, the more the hell-boru 
passion was aroused ! 

Like men of his peculiar constitution, Edward was 
wholly incapable of pure and steady love. His affection 
for his queen the most resembled that diviner affection ; 
but when analyzed, it was composed of feelings widely 
distinct. From a sudden passion, not otherwise to be 
gratified, he had made the rashest sacrifices for an un- 
equal marriage. His vanity, and something of original 
magnanimity, despite his vices, urged him to protect what 
he himself had raised, — to secure the honor of the sub- 
ject who was honored by the king. In common with 
most rude and powerful natures, he was strongly alive to 
the affections of a father, and the. faces of his children 
helped to maintain the influence of the mother. But in 
all this, we need scarcely say, that that true love, which 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 105 

is at once a passion and a devotion, existed not. Love 
with him cared not for the person loved, but solely for 
its own gratification ; it was desire for possession — nothing 
more. But that desire was the will of a king who nevef 
knew fear or scruple ; and, pampered by eternal indul- 
gence, it was to the feeble lusts of common men what the 
storm is to the west wind. Yet still, as in the solitude 
of night he paced his chamber, the shadow of the great 
crime advancing upon his soul appalled even that daunt- 
less conscience. He gasped for breath — his cheeks 
flushed crimson, and the next moment grew deadly pale. 
He heard the loud beating of his heart. He stopped 
still. He flung himself on a seat, and hid his face with 
his hands, then starting up, he exclaimed — ‘‘No — no I 
I cannot shut out that sweet face, those blue eyes, from 
my gaze. They haunt me to my destruction and her 
own. Yet why say destruction ? If she love me, who 
shall know the deed ; if she love me not, will she dare to 
reveal her shame! Shame I — nay, a king’s embrace 
never dishonors. A king’s bastard is a house’s pride. 
All is still — the very moon vanishes from heaven. The 
noiseless rushes in the gallery give no echo to the foot- 
step. Fie on me I Can a Plantagenet know fear?” He 
allowed himself no further time to pause ; he opened the 
door gently, and stole along the gallery. He knew well 
the chamber, for it was appointed by his command ; and^ 
beside the usual door from the corridor, a small closet 
conducted to a secret panel behind the arras. It wns tlie 
apartment occupied, in her visits to the court, by the 


106 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


queen’s nVal, the Lady Elizabeth Lucy. He passed into 
the closet — he lifted the arras — he stood in that chamber, 
which gratitude, and chivalry, and hospitable faith, should 
have made sacred as a shrine. And suddenly, as he 
entered, the moon, before hid beneath a melancholy cloud, 
broke forth in awful splendor, and her light rushed 
through the casement opposite his eye, and bathed the 
room with the beams of a ghostlier day. 

The abruptness of the solemn and mournful glory 
scared him as the rebuking face of a living thing ; a 
presence as if not of earth seemed to interpose between 
the victim and the guilt. It was, however, but for a 
moment that his step halted. He advanced ; he drew 
aside the folds of the curtain heavy with tissue of gold, 
and the sleeping face of Anne lay hushed before him. It 
looked pale in the moonlight, but ineffably serene, and 
the smile on its lips seemed still sweeter than that which 
it wore awake. So fixed was his gaze — so ardently did 
his whole heart and being feed through his eyes upon 
that exquisite picture of innocence and youth, that he did 
not see for some moments that the sleeper was not alone. 
Suddenly an exclamation rose to his lips — he clenched 
his hand in jealous agony he approached — he bent 
over — he heard the regular breathing which the dreams 
of guilt never know, and then, when he saw that pure 
and interlaced embrace — the serene yet somewhat melan- 
choly face of Sibyll, which seemed hueless as marble in 
the moonlight — bending partially over that of Anne, as 
if, even in sleep, watchful, — botli charming forms so 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


10 *? 


linked and woven that the two seemed as one life, the 
very breath in each rising and ebbing with the other, the 
dark ringlets of Sibyll mingling with the auburn gold of 
Anne’s luxuriant hair, and the darkness and the gold, 
tress within tress, falling impartially over either neck, 
that gleamed like ivory beneath that common veil — when 
he saw this two-fold loveliness, the sentiment — the con- 
viction of that mysterious defence which exists in purity, 
thrilled like ice through his burning veins. In all his 
might of monarch and of man, he felt the awe of that un- 
looked-for protection — maidenhood sheltering maiden- 
hood — innocence guarding innocence. The double virtue 
appalled and baffled him ; and that slight arm which 
encircled the neck he would have perilled his realm to 
clasp, shielded his victim more effectually than the buck- 
lers of all the warriors that ever gathered round the 
banner of the lofty Warwick. Night and the occasion 
befriended him ; but in vain. While Sibyll was there, 
Anne was saved. He ground his teeth, and muttered to 
himself. At that moment Anne turned restlessly.* This 
movement disturbed the light sleep of her companion. 
She spoke half inaudibly, but the sound was as the hoot 
of shame in the ear of the guilty king. He let fall the 
curtain, and was gone. And if one who lived afterwards 
to hear, and to credit, the murderous doom which, unless 
history lies, closed the male line of Edward, had beheld 
the king stealing, felon-like, from the chamber, his step 
reeling to and fro the gallery floors — his face distorted 
by stormy passion — his lips white and murmuring — his 


108 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


beauty and his glory dimmed and humbled — the spectator 
miglit have half believed that while Edward gazed upon 
those harmless sleepers, a vision of the tragedy to 
COME had stricken down bis thought of guilt, and filled 
up its place with horror, — a vision of a sleep as pure — 
of two forms wrapped in an embrace as fond — of intruders 
meditating a crime scarce fouler than his own ; and the 
sins of the father starting into grim corporeal shapes, to 
become the deathsmen of the sons ! 


CHAPTER III. 

New Dangers to the House of York — and the King’s Heart allies 
itself with Rebellion against the King’s Throne. 

Oh ! beautiful is the love of youth to youth, and touch- 
ing the tenderness of womanhood to woman ; and fair in 
the eyes of the happy sun is the waking of holy sleep, 
and the virgin kiss upon virgin lips smiling and murmur- 
ing the sweet “ Good morrow 1 ’’ 

Anne was the first to wake ; and as the bright winter 
morn, robust with frosty sunbeams, shone cheerily upon 
SibylPs face, she was struck with a beauty she had not 
sufficiently observed the day before ; for in the sleep of 
the young the traces of thought and care vanish, the 
acliing heart is lulled in the body’s rest, the hard lines 
relax into flexile ease, a softer, warmer bloom steals over 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


1C9 


the cheek, and, relieved from the stiff restraints of dress, 
the rounded limbs repose in a more ulluring grace ! 
Youth seems younger in its slumber, and beauty more 
beautiful, and purity more pure. Long and dark, the 
fringe of the eyelash rested upon the white lids, and the 
freshness of the parting pouted lips invited the sister 
kiss that wakened up the sleeper. 

“Ah I lady,” said Sibyll, parting her tresses from her 
dark blue eyes — “you are here — you are safe I — blessed 
be the saints and Our Lady — for I had a dream in the 
night that startled and appalled me.” 

“And my dreams were all blithe and golden,” said 
Anne. “What was thine?” 

“ Methought you were asleep and in this chamber, and 
I not by your side, but watching you, at a little distance; 
and lo ! a horrible serpent glided from yon recess, and, 
crawling to your pillow, I heard its hiss, and strove to 
come to your aid, but in vain ; a spell seemed to chain 
my limbs. At last I found voice — I cried aloud — I 
woke ; and mock me not, but I surely heard a parting 
footstep, and the low grating of some sliding door.” 

“ It was the dream’s influence, enduring beyond the 
dream. I have often felt it — nay, even last night ; for I, 
too, dreamt of another, dreamt that I stood by the altar 
with one far away, and when I woke — for, I woke also 

it was long before I could believe it was thy hand I 

held, and thine arm that embraced me.” 

The young friends rose, and their toilet was scarcely 
ended, when agaiu appeared in the chamber all the state- 
II.— 10 2 p 


110 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

liness of retinue allotted to the Lady Anne. Sibyll turned 
to depart. “And whither go you?” asked Anne. 

“ To visit my father ; it is my first task on rising,” re- 
turned Sibyll, in a whisper. 

“ You must let me visit him, too, at a later hour. Find 
me here an hour before noon, Sibyll.” 

The early morning was passed by Anne in the queen’s 
company. The refection, the embroidery frame, the 
closheys, filled up the hours. The Duchess of Clarence 
had left the palace with her lord to visit the king’s mo- 
ther at Baynard’s Castle ; and Anne’s timid spirits were 
saddened by the strangeness of the faces round her, and 
Elizabeth’s habitual silence. There was something in the 
weak and ill-fated queen that ever failed to conciliate 
friends. Though perpetually striving to form and create 
a party, she never succeeded in gaining confidence or 
respect. And no one raised so high was ever left so 
friendless as Elizabeth, when, in her awful widowhood, 
her dowry home became the sanctuary. All her power 
was but the shadow of her husband’s royal sun, and 
vanished when the orb prematurely set ; yet she had all 
gifts of person in her favor, and a sleek smoothness of 
manner that seemed to the superficial formed to win ; but 
the voice was artificial, and the eye cold and stealthy. 
About her formal precision there was an eternal con- 
sciousness of self — a breathing egotism. Her laugh was 
displeasing— cynical, not mirthful ; she had none of that 
forgetfulness of self, that warmth when gay, that eari.cst- 
ness when sad, which create sympathy. Her beauty was 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


11 ] 


without loveliness — her character without charm ; every 
proportion in her form might allure the sensualist ; but 
there stopped the fascination. The mind was trivial, 
though cunning and dissimulating ; and the very evenness 
of her temper seemed but the clock-work of a heart in- 
sensible to its own movements. Yain in prosperity, what 
wonder that she was so abject in misfortune ? What 
wonder that even while, in later and gloomier years,* 
accusing Richard III. of the murder of her royal sons, 
and knowing him, at least, the executioner of her brother, 
and her, child by the bridegroom of her youth,-f she con- 
sented to send her daughters to his custody, though sub- 
jected to the stain of illegitimacy, and herself only 
recognized as the harlot? 

The king, meanwhile, had ridden out betimes alone, 
and no other of the male sex presumed in his absence to 
invade the female circle. It was with all a girl’s fresh 
delight, that Anne escaped at last to her own chamber, 
where she found Sibyll, and, with her guidance, she 
threaded the gloomy mazes of the Tower. “Let me 
see,” she whispered, “ before we visit your father, let me 
see the turret in which the unhappy Henry is confined.” 

And Sibyll led her through the arch of that tower, 

* Grafton, 806. 

f Anthony Lord Rivers, and Lord Richard Gray. Not the least 
instance of the frivolity of Elizabeth’s mind, is to be found in her 
willingness, after ail the woes of her second widowhood, and when 
Bhe was not very far short of sixty years old, to take a third hus- 
band, James III. of Scotland— a marriage prevented only by the 
death of the Scotch king. 


112 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


now called “The Bloody/’ and showed her the narrow 
casement deep sunk in the mighty wall, without which 
hung the starling in the cage, basking its plumes in the 
wintry sun. Anne gazed with that deep interest and 
tender reverence which the parent of the man she loves 
naturally excites in a woman ; and while thus standing 
sorrowfnl and silent, the casement was unbarred, and she 
saw the mild face of the human captive ; — he seemed to talk 
to the bird, which, in shrill tones and with clapping wings, 
answered his address. At that time a horn sounded at a 
little distance off; a clangor of arms, as the. sentries 
saluted, was heard ; the demoiselles retreated through 
the arch, and mounted the stair conducting to the very 
room, then unoccupied, in which tradition records the 
murder of the Third Richard’s nephews; and scarcely 
had they gained this retreat, ere towards the Bloody 
Gate, and before the prison tower, rode the king who had 
mounted the captive’s throne. His steed, gaudy with its 
housings — his splendid dress — the knights and squires 
who started forward from every corner to hold his gilded 
stirrup — his vigorous youth, so blooming and so radiant 
— all contrasted, with oppressive force, the careworn face 
that watched him meekly through the little casement of 
one Wakefield Tower. Edward’s large, quick blue eye 
caught sudden sight of the once familiar features. He 
looked up steadily, and his gaze encountered the fallen 
king’s. He changed countenance : but with the external 
chivalry that made the surface of his hollow though bril- 
liant character, he bowed low to his saddle-bow as he 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 113 

saw his captive, and removed the plumed cap from his 
high brow. 

Henry smiled sadly, and shook his reverend head, as 
if gently to rebuke the mockery : then he closed the case- 
ment, and Edward rode into the yard. 

“ How can the king hold here a court and here a 
prison ? Oh, hard heart ! ” murmured Anne, as when 
Edward had disappeared, the damsels bent their way to 
Adam’s chamber. 

“Would the Earl Warwick approve thy pity, sweet 
Lady Anne ? ” asked Sibyll. 

“ My father’s heart is too generous to condemn it,” 
returned Anne, wiping the tears from her eyes; “how 
often in the knight’s galliard shall I see that face ! ” 

The turret in which Warner’s room was placed, flanked 
the wing inhabited by the royal family and their more 
distinguished guests (viz. the palace, properly speaking, 
as distinct from the fortress), and communicated with the 
regal lodge by a long corridor, raised above cloisters 
and open to a court-yard. At one end of this corridor 
a door opened upon the passage, in which was situated 
the chamber of the Lady Anne; the other extremity 
communicated with a rugged stair of stone, conducting 
to the rooms tenanted by Warner. Leaving Sibyll to 
present her learned father to the gentle Anne, we follow 
the king into the garden, which he entered on dismount- 
ing. He found here the archbishop of York, who had 
come to the palace in his barge, and with but a slight 
10* H 


114 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

retinue, and who was now conversing with Hastings in 
earnest whispers. 

The king, who seemed thoughtful and fatigued, ap- 
proached the two, and said, with a forced smile, “What 
learned sententiary engages you two scholars?” 

“Your grace,” said the archbishop, “Minerva was not 
precisely the goddess most potent over our thoughts at 
that moment. I received a letter last evening from the 
Duke of Gloucester, and as I know the love borne by 
the prince to the Lord Hastings, I inquired of your 
chamberlain how far he could have foreguessed the news 
it announced ? ” 

“And what may the tidings be !” asked Edward, absently. 

The prelate hesitated. 

“Sire,” he said, gravely, “the familiar confidence with 
which both your highness and the Duke of Gloucester 
distinguish the chamberlain, permits me to communicate 
the purport of the letter in his presence. The young 
duke informs me that he hath long conceived an affection 
which he would improve into marriage, but before he 
address either the demoiselle or her father, he prays me 
to confer with your grace, whose pleasure in this, as in 
all things, will be his sovereign law.” 

“Ah, Richard loves me with a truer love than George 
of Clarence I But whom can he have seen on the borders 
worthy to be a prince’s bride?” 

“ It is no sudden passion, sire, as I before hinted ; nay, 
it has been for some time sufiiciently notorious to his 
friends, and many of the court — it is an aflectiou for a 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


116 


maiden known to him in childhood, connected to him by 
blood, — my niece, Anne Nevile.’’ 

As if stung by a scorpion, Edward threw off the pre- 
late’s arm, on which he had been leaning with his usual 
caressing courtesy. 

“ This is too much ! ” said he quickly, and his face, 
before somewhat pale, grew highly flushed. — “ Is the 
whole royalty of England to be one Nevile ? Have I 
not sufficiently narrowed the bases of my throne ? In- 
stead of mating my daughter to a foreign power — to 
Spain or to Bretagne — she is betrothed to young Mon- 
tagu I Clarence weds Isabel, and now Gloucester — no, 
prelate, I will not consent ! ” 

The archbishop was so little prepared for this burst, 
that he remained speechless. Hastings pressed the king’s 
arm, as if to caution him against so imprudent a display 
of resentment. But the king walked on, not heeding 
him, and in great disturbance. Hastings interchanged 
looks with the archbishop, and followed his royal master. 

“ My king,” he said, in an earnest whisper, “whatever 
you decide, do not again provoke unhappy feuds laid at 
rest I morning I sought your chamber, but 

you were abroad, to say that I have received intelligence 
of a fresh rising of the Lancastrians in Lincolnshire, 
under Sir Robert Welles, and the warlike knight of 
Sclirivelsby, Sir Thomas Dyraoke. This is not yet an 
liour to anger the pride of the Neviles ! ” 

“ 0 Hastings ! Hastings !” said the king, in a tone of 
passionate emotion — “there are moments when the human 


116 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


heart cannot dissemble ! Howbeit your advice is wise 
and honest 1 No, we must not anger the Neviles I” 

He turned abruptly ; rejoined the archbishop, who 
stood on the spot on which the king had left him, his 
arms folded on his breast, his face calm but haughty. 

“My most worshipful cousin,” said Edward, “forgive 
the well-known heat of my hasty moods I I had hoped 
that Richard would, by a foreign alliance, have repaired 
the occasion of confirming my dynasty abroad, which 
Clarence lost. But, no matter I Of these things we will 
speak anon. Say nought to Richard till time ripens 
maturer resolutions : he is a youth yet. What strange 
tidings are these from Lincolnshire ? ” 

“ The house of your purveyor, Sir Robert de Burgh, 
is burned — his lands wasted. The rebels are headed by 
lords and knights. Robin of Redesdale, who, methinks, 
bears a charmed life,, has even ventured to rouse the 
disaffected in my brother’s very shire of Warwick.” 

“ Oh, Henry,” exclaimed the king casting his eyes to- 
wards the turret that held his captive, “ well mightst thou 
call a crown ‘ a wreath of thorns ! ’ ” 

“I have already,” said the archbishop, “despatched 
couriers to my brother, to recall him from Warwick, 
whither he went on quitting your highness. I have done 
more — prompted by a zeal that draws me from the care 
of the church to that of the state, I have summoned the 
Lords St. John, De Fulke, and others, to my house of 
the More; — praying your highness to deign to meet 
them, and well sure that a smile from your princely lips: 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


in 


will regain their hearts and confirm their allegiance, at a 
moment when new perils require all strong arms.” 

“You have done most wisely. I will come to your 
palace — appoint your own day.” 

“ It will take some days for the barons to arrive from 
their castles. I fear not ere the tenth day from this.” 

“Ah!” said the king, with a vivacity that surprised 
his listeners, aware of his usual impetuous energy, “ the 
delay will but befriend us ; as for Warwick, permit me to 
alter your arrangements ; let him employ the interval, not 
in London, where he is useless, but in raising men in the 
neighborhood of his castle, and in defeating the treason 
of this Redesdale knave. We will give commission to 
him, and to Clarence, to levy troops ; Hastings, see to 
this forthwith. Ye say Sir Robert Welles leads the 
Lincolnshire varlets ; I know the nature of his father, 
the Lord Welles — a fearful and timorous one; I will 
send for him, and the father’s head shall answer for the 
son’s faith. Pardon me, dear cousin, that I leave you to 
attend these matters. Prithee visit our queen, meanwhile 
she holds you our guest.” 

“Nay, your highness must vouchsafe my excuse; 1 
also have your royal interests too much at heart to while 
an hour in my pleasureraent. I will but see the friends 
of our house, now in London, and then back to the More, 
and collect the force of my tenants and retainers.” 

“Ever right, fair speed to you — cardinal that shall 
be! Your arm, Hastings.” 


118 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


The king and his favorite took their way into the state 
jjhambers. 

“Abet not Gloucester in this alliance — abet him 
not I ” said the king, solemnly. 

“Pause, sire ! This alliance gives to Warwick a wise 
counsellor, instead of the restless Duke of Clarence. 
Reflect what danger may ensue if an ambitious lord, dis- 
contented with your reign, obtains the hand of the great 
earl’s coheiress, and the half of a hundred baronies that 
command an army larger than the crown’s.” 

Though these reasonings at a calmer time might well 
have had their effect on Edward, at that moment they 
were little heeded by his passions. He stamped his foot 
violently on the floor. “Hastings!” he exclaimed, “be 
silent ! or ” He stopped short — mastered his emo- 

tion — “Go, assemble our privy council. We have 
graver matters than a boy’s marriage now to think of.” 

It was in vain that Edward sought to absorb the fire 
of his nature in state affairs, in all needful provisions 
against the impending perils, in schemes of war and 
vengeance. The fatal frenzy that had seized him haunted 
him everywhere, by day and by night. For some days 
after the unsuspected visit which he had so criminally 
stolen to his guest’s chamber, something of knightly 
honor, of religious scruple, of common reason — awakened 
in him the more by the dangers which had sprung up, 
and which the Neviles were now actively employed in 
defeating — struggled against his guilty desire, and 
roused his conscience to a less feeble resistance than it 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


119 


usually displayed when opposed to passion ; but the 
society of Anne, into which he was necessarily thrown so 
many hours in the day, and those hours chiefly after the 
indulgences of the banquet, was more powerful than all 
the dictates of a virtue so seldom exercised as to have 
none of the strength of habit. And as the time drew 
near, when he must visit the archbishop, head his army 
against the rebels (whose force daily increased, despite 
the captivity of Lord Welles and Sir Thomas Dymoke, 
who, on the summons of the king, had first taken sanctu- 
ary, and then yielded their persons on the promise of 
pardon and safety), and restore Anne to her mother — as 
this time drew near, his perturbation of mind became 
visible to the whole court ; but, with the instinct of his 
native craft, he contrived to conceal its cause. For the 
first time in his life, he had no confidant — he did not dare 
trust his secret to Hastings. His heart gnawed itself. 
Neither, though constantly stealing to Anne’s side, could 
he venture upon language that might startle and enlighten 
her. He felt that even those attentions, which on the 
first evening of her arrival had been noticed by the 
courtiers, could not be safely renewed. He was grave 
and constrained, even when by her side, and the etiquette 
of the court allowed him no opportunity for unwitnessed 
conference. In this suppressed and unequal struggle 
with himself the time passed, till it was now but the day 
before that fixed for his visit to the More. And, as he 
rose at morning from his restless couch, the struggle was 
over, and the soul resolved to dare the crime. His first 


120 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

thought was to separate Anne from Sibyll. He aifeeted 
to rebuke the queen for giving to his high-born guest an 
associate below her dignity, and on whose character, 
poor girl, rested the imputation of witchcraft ; and when 
the queen replied that Lady Anne herself had so chosen, 
he hit upon the expedient of visiting Warner himself, 
under pretence of inspecting his progress, — affected to 
be struck by the sickly appearance of the sage, and send- 
ing for Sibyll, told her, with an air of gracious conside- 
ration, that her first duty was to attend her parent, that 
the queen released her for some days from all court duties, 
and that he had given orders to prepare the room adjoin- 
ing Master Warner’s, and held by Friar Bungey, till that 
worthy had retired with his patroness from the court, to 
which she would for the present remove. 

Sibyll, wondering at this novel mark of consideration 
in the careless king, yet imputing it to the high value set 
on her father’s labors, thanked Edward with simple 
earnestness, and withdrew. In the ante-room she en- 
countered Hastings, on his way to the king. He started 
in surprise, and with a jealous pang: “What thou, 
Sibyll ! and from the king’s closet ! What led thee, 
thither ? ” 

“ His grace’s command.” And too noble for the plea- 
sure of exciting the distrust that delights frivolous minds 
as the proof of power, Sibyll added, “The king has 
been kindly speaking to me of my father’s health.” The 
courtier’s brow cleared — he mused a moment, and said. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS 


121 


in a whisper, “I beseech thee to meet me an hour hence 
at the eastern rampart.” 

Since the return of Lord Hastings to the palace, there 
had been an estrangement and distance in his manner, ill 
suiting one who enjoyed the rights of an accepted suitor, 
and wounding alike to Sibyll’s affection and her pride ; 
but her confidence in his love and truth was entire. Her 
admiration for him partook of worship, and she steadily 
sought to reason away any causes for alarm by recalling 
the state cares which pressed heavily upon him, and 
whispering to herself that word of “ wife,” which, coming 
in passionate music from those beloved lips, had thrown 
a mist over the present — a glory over the future ; and in 
the king’s retention of Adam Warner, despite the Duchess 
of Bedford’s strenuous desire to 'carry him off with Friar 
Bungey, and restore him to his tasks of alchemist and 
multiplier, as well as in her own promotion to the queen’s 
service, Sibyll could not but recognize the influence of 
her powerful lover. His tones now were tender, though 
grave and earnest. Surely, in the meeting he asked, all 
not comprehended would be explained. And so, with a 
light heart, she passed on. 

Hastings sighed as his eye followed her from the room, 
and thus said he to himself — “Were I the obscure gen- 
tleman T once was, how sweet a lot would that girl’s love 
choose to me from the urn of fate ! But, oh ! when we 
taste of power and greatness, and master the world’s dark 
wisdom, what doth love shrink to ? — an hour’s bliss, and 
a life’s folly.” His delicate lip curled, and breaking 
II.— 11 


122 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

from his soliloquy, he entered the king’s closet. Edward 
was resting his face upon the palms of his hands, and his 
bright eyes dwelt upon vacant space, till they kindled into 
animation as they lighted on his favorite. 

“ Dear Will,” said the king, “ knowest thou that men 
say thou art bewitched ? ” 

‘‘Beau sire, often have men, when a sweet face hath 
captured thy great heart, said the same of thee ! ” 

“ It may be so, with truth, for verily, love is the' arch- 
devil’s birth.” i 

The king rose, and strode his chamber with a quick 
step; at last pausing — , 

“Hastings,” he said, “so thou lovest the multiplier’s 
pretty daughter. She hath just left me. Art thou 
jealous?” ' I 

“ Happily, your highness sees no beauty in locks that 
have the gloss of the raven, and eyes that have the hue 
of the violet.” 

f “ No, I am a constant man, constant to one idea of 
beauty in a thousand forms — eyes like the summer’s light- 
blue sky, and locks like' its golden sunbeams I But to 
set thy mind at rest. Will, know that I have but com- 
passionated the sickly state of -the scholar, whom thou 
prizest so highly ; and d have placed thy fair Sibyll’s 
chamber near her father’s. Young Lovell says thou art 
bent on wedding the wizard’s daughter ” 

“And if I were, beau sireV^ 

Edward looked grave. 

“If thou wert, my poor Will, thou wouldst lose all 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


123 


the fame for shrewd wisdom which justifies thy sudden 
fortunes. No — no — thou art the flower and prince of 
my new seignorie — thou must mate thyself with a name 
and a barony that shall be worthy^thy fame and thy 
prospects. Love beauty, but marry power, Will. In 
vain would thy king draw thee up, if a despised wife 
draw thee down I ” 

Hastings listened with profound attention to these 
words. The king did not wait for his answer, but added, 
laughingly — 

“ It is thine own fault, crafty gallant, if thou dost not 
end all her spells.” 

“What ends the spells of youth and beauty, heau 
sire ? ” 

“ Possession ! ” replied the king, in a hollow and mut- 
tered voice. 

Hastings was about to answer, when the door opened, 
and the officer in waiting announced the Duke of 
Clarence. 

“ Ha I ” said Edward, “ George comes, to importune 
me for leave to depart to the government of Ireland, and 
I have to make him weet that I think my Lord Worcester 
a safer viceroy of the two ! ” 

“ Your highness will pardon me ; but, though I deemed 
you too generous in the appointment, it were dangerous 
now to annul it.” 

“ More dangerous to confirm it. Elizabeth has caused 
me to see the folly of a grant made over the malmsey — 
a wine, by the way, in which poor George swears he 


124 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


would be content to drown himself. Yiceroy of Ireland 1 
My father had that government, and once tasting the 
sweets of royalty, ceased to be a subject I No, no, 
Clarence — — ” ^ 

“ Can never meditate treason against a brother’s crown. 
Has he the wit, or the energy, or the genius, for so 
desperate an ambition ” 

“ No ; but he hath the vanity. And I will wager thee 
a thousand marks to a silver penny that my jester shall 
talk giddy Georgie into advancing a claim to be soldan 
of Egypt, or pope of Rome ! ” 


CHAPTER lY. 

The Foster-Brothers. 

Sir Marmaduke Nevile was sunning his bravery in 
the Tower Green, amidst the other idlers of the court, 
proud of the gold chain and the gold spurs which at- 
tested his new rank, and not grieved to have exchanged 
the solemn walls of Middlehara for the gay delights of 
the voluptuous palace, when, to his pleasure and surprise 
he perceived his foster-brother enter the gateway ; and 
no sooner had Nicholas entered, than a bevy of the 
younger courtiers hastened eagerly towards him. 

“ Gramercy ! ” quoth Sir Marmaduke, to one of the 
bystanders, what hath chanced to make Nick Alwyn a 
man of such note^ that so many wings of satin and pile 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 12b 

eliould flutter round him like sparrows round an owl, 
which, by the Holy Rood, his wise face somewhat re- 
sembleth.” 

“ Know you not that Master Alwyn, since he hath com- 
menced trade for himself, hath acquired already the repute 
of the couthliest goldsmith in London ? No dague-hilts 
— no buckles are to be worn, save those that he fashions; 
and — an’ he live, and the House of York prosper — 
verily. Master Alwyn, the goldsmith, will, ere long, be 
the richest and best man from Mile-end to the Sanctuary.” 

“ Right glad am I to hear it,” said honest Marmaduke, 
heartily ; and approaching Alwyn, he startled the precise 
trader by a friendly slap on the shoulder. 

“ What, man, art thou too proud to remember Mar- 
maduke Nevile ! Come to my lodgment, yonder, and 
talk of old days over the king’s canary.” 

“I crave your pardon dear Master Nevile.” 

“ Master — avaunt ! Sir Marmaduke — knighted by the 
hand of Lord Warwick — Sir Marmaduke Nevile, lord 
of a manor he hath never yet seen, sober Alwyn.” 

Then drawing his foster-brother’s arm in his, Marma 
duke led him to the chamber in which he lodged. 

The young men spent some minutes in congratulating 
each other on their respective advances in life : — the 
gentleman, who had attained competence and station, 
simply by devotion to a powerful patron — the trader, 
who had already won repute and the prospect of wealth 
by ingenuity, application, and toil ; and yet, to do justice 
as much virtue went to Marmaduke’s loyalty to Warwick 
11 * 2q 


126 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


as to Alwyn’s capacities for making a fortune. Mutual 
compliments over, Alwyn said — hesitatingly — 

“ And dost thou find Mistress Sibyll more gently dis- 
posed to thee than when thou didst complain to me of 
her cruelty ? ” 

“ Marry, good Nicholas, I will be frank with thee. 
When I left the court to follow Lord Warwick, there 
were rumors of the gallantries of Lord Hastings to the 
girl, which grieved me to the heart. I spoke to her 
thereof bluntly and honorably, and got but high looks 
and scornful words in return. Good fellow, I thank thee 
for that squeeze of the hand and that doleful sigh. In 
my absence at Middleham, I strove hard to forget one 
who cared so little for me. My dear Alwyn, those York- 
shire lasses are parlously comely, and mighty douce and 
debonnaire. So I stormed cruel Sibyll out of my heart, 
perforce of numbers.” 

“And thou lovest her no more?” 

“ Not I, by this goblet ! On coming back, it is true, 1 
felt pleased to clank my gold spurs in her presence, and 
curious to see if my new fortunes would bring out a smile 
of approval ; and verily, to speak sooth, the donzell was 
kind and friendly, and spoke to me so cheerly of the 
pleasure she felt in my advancement, that I adventured 
again a few words of the old folly. But my lassie drew 
up like a princess, and I am a cured man.” 

“ By your troth ? ” 

“ By my troth ! ” 

Alwyn’s head sank on his bosom, in silent thought. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 127 

Sir Marmaduke emptied his goblet ; and really the young 
knight looked so fair and so gallant, in his new surcoat 
of velvet, that it was no marvel if he should find enough 
food for consolation in a court where men spent six hours 
a day in making love — nor in vain. 

“And what say they still of the Lord Hastings?” 
asked Alwyn, breaking silence. “Nothing, I trow and 
trust, that arraigns the poor lady’s honor — though much 
that may scoff at her simple faith, in a nature so vain and 
fickle. ‘ The tongue’s not steel, yet it cuts,’ as the pro- 
verb saith of the slanderer.” 

“No! scandal spares her virtue as woman — to run 
down her cunning as witch ! They say that Hastings 
hath not prevailed, nor sought to prevail — that he is 
spell-bound. By St. Thomas, from a maid of such char- 
acter, Marmaduke Nevile is happily rescued!’’ 

“ Sir Marmaduke,” then said Alwyn, in a grave and 
earnest voice — “it behoves me, as true friend, though 
humble, and as honest man, to give thee my secret, in 
return for thine own. I love this girl. Ay, ay ! thou 
thinkest that love is a strange word in a craftsman’s lips, 
but ‘cold flint hides hot fire.’ I would not have been 
thy rival. Heaven forefend ! hadst thou still cherished a 

liope or if thou now wilt forbid my aspiring; but if 

thou wilt not say me nay, I will try my chance in deliver- 
ing a pure soul from a crafty wooer.’’ 

Marmaduke stared in great surprise at his foster-bro- 
ther : and thoujrh, no doubt, he spoke truth, wlien he 
said he was cured of his love for Sibyll, he yet felt a sort 


128 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


of jealousy at Alwyn’s unexpected confession, and his 
vanity was hurt at the notion that the plain-visaged trader 
should attempt where the handsome gentleman had failed. 
However, his blunt, generous, manly nature, after a brief 
struggle, got the better of these sore feelings, and holding 
out his hand to Alwyn, he said, “ My dear foster-brother, 
try the hazard and cast thy dice, if thou wilt. Heaven 
prosper thee, if success be for thine own good ! But if 
she be really given to witchcraft (plague on thee, man, 
sneer not at the word), small comfort to bed and hearth 
can such practices bring ! ” 

“Alas ! ” said Alwyn, “the witchcraft is on the side of 
Hastings — the witchcraft of fame and rank, and a glozing 
tongue and experienced art. But she shall not fall, if a 
true arm can save her ; and ‘ though Hope be a small 
child, she can carry a great anchor ? ’ ” 

These words were said so earnestly, that they opened 
new light into Marmaduke’s mind, and his native gene- 
rosity standing in lieu of intellect, he comprehended 
sympathetically the noble motives which actuated the son 
of commerce. 

“My poor Alwyn,’’ he said, “if thou canst save this 
young maid — whom by my troth I loved well, and who 
tells me yet, that she loveth me as a sister loves — right 
glad filiall I be. But thou stakest thy peace of mind 
against hers : — fair luck to thee, say I again — and if thou 
wilt risk thy chance at once (for suspense is love’s pur- 
gatory), seize the moment. I saw Sibyll, just ere we met, 
pass to the ramparts, alone; at this sharp season, the 
place is dosertpd — ircv’’ 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

“ I will, this moment ! ” said Alw^yn, rising and turning 
very pale ; but as he gained the door he halted — “ I had 
forgot, Master Nevile, that I bring the king his signet- 
ring, new set, of the falcon and fetter-lock.’’ 

“ They will keep thee three hours in the ante-room. 
The Duke of Clarence is now with the king. Trust the 
ring to me ; I shall see his highness ere he dines.” \ 

Even in his love, Alwyn had the Saxon’s considerations 
of business ; he hesitated — “ May I not endanger thereby 
the king’s favor and loss of custom ? ” said the trader. 

“ Tush, man ! little thou know'est King Edward ; he 
cares nought for the ceremonies : moreover, the Neviles 
are now all-puissant in favor. I am here in attendance 
on sweet Lady Anne, whom the king loves as a daughter, 
though too young for sire to so well-grown a donzell ; 
and a word from her lip, if need be, will set all as smooth 
as this gorget of lawm ! ” 

Thus assured, Alwyn gave the ring to his friend, and 
took his way at once to the Ramparts. Marmaduke re- 
mained behind to finish the canary and marvel how so 
sober a man should form so ardent a passion. Nor was 
he much less surprised to remark that his friend, though 
still speaking with a strong provincial accent, and still 
sowdng his discourse with rustic saws and proverbs, had 
risen in language and in manner with the rise of his for- 
tunes. ‘‘An’ he go on so, and become lord-mayor,” mut- 
tered Marmaduke ; “ verily, he will half look like a gen- 
tleman I ” 

To these meditations the young knight was not long 


I 


130 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


left in peace. A messenger from Warwick House sought 
and found him, with the news that the earl was on his 
road to London, and wished to see Sir Marmaduke the 
moment of his arrival, which was hourly expected. The 
young knight’s hardy brain, some\vhat flustered by the 
canary, Alwyn’s secret, and this sudden tidings, he hast- 
ened to obey his chief’s summons, and forgot, till he 
gained the earl’s mansion, the signet-ring intrusted to 
him by Alw^n. “ What matters it ?” said he then, phi- 
losophically — “the king hath rings eno’ on his fingers 
not to miss one for an hour or so, and I dare not send 
any one else with it. Marry, I must plunge my head in 
cold water, to get rid of the fumes of the wine.” 


CHAPTER Y. 

The Lover and the Gallant — Woman’s Choice. 

Alwyn bent his way to the Ramparts, a part of which, 
then, resembled the boulevards of a French town, having 
rows of trees, green-sward, a winding walk, and seats 
placed at frequent intervals, for the repose of the loun- 
gers. During the summer evenings, the place was a 
favorite resort of the court idlers ; but now, in winter, it 
was usually deserted, save by the sentries, placed at dis- 
tant interva,ls. The trader had not gone far in his quest 
when he perceived, a few paces before him, the very man 
he had most cause to dread ; and Lord Hastings, hearing 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


131 


the sound of a foot-fall amongst the crisp, faded leaves, 
that strewed the path, turned abruptly as Alwyn ap- 
proached his side. 

At the sight of his formidable rival, Alwyn had formed 
one of those resolutions which occur only to men of his 
decided, plain-spoken, energetic character. His distin- 
guishing shrewdness and penetration had given him con- 
siderable insight into the nobler as well as the weaker 
qualities of Hastings ; and his hope in the former in- 
fluenced the determination to which he came. The re- 
flections of Hastings at that moment were of a nature to 
augur favorably to the views of the humbler lover ; for, 
during the stirring scenes in which his late absence from 
Sibyll had been passed, Hastings had somewhat recovered 
from her influence ; and feeling the difficulties of recon- 
ciling his honor and his worldly prospects to further pro- 
secution of the love, rashly expressed but not deeply felt, 
he had determined frankly to cut the Gordian knot he 
could not solve, and inform Sibyll that marriage between 
them was impossible. With that view he had appointed 
this meeting, and his conference with the king. but con- 
firmed his intention. 

It was in this state of mind that lie was thus accosted 
by Alwyn : — 

“ My lord, may I make bold to ask, for a few moments, 
your charitable indulgence to words you may deem pre- 
sumptuous ?” 

“Be brief, then. Master Alwyn — I am waited for.” 


132 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


“Aias, my lord ! I can guess by whom — by the one 
whom I seek myself — by Sibyll Warner?” 

“How, Sir Goldsmith ! ” said Hastings, haughtily — 
“ what knowest thou of my movements, and what care 1 
for thine ? ” 

“ Hearken, my Lord Hastings — hearken ! ” said Alwyn, 
repressing his resentment, and in a voice so earnest that 
it riveted the entire attention of the listener — “hearken 
and judge not as noble judges craftsman, but as man 
should judge man. As the saw saith, ‘We all lie alike 
in our graves.’ From the first moment I saw this Sibyll 
Warner, I loved her. Yes; smile disdainfully, but listen 
still. She was obscure and in distress. I loved her not 
for her fair looks alone — I loved her for her good gifts, 
for her patient industry, for her filial duty, for her strug- 
gles to give bread to her father’s board. I did not say 
to myself, ‘ This girl will make a comely fere — a delicate 
paramour ! ’ I said, ‘ This good daughter will make a 
wife whom an honest man may take to his heart and 
cherish.’ ” Poor Alwyn stopped, with tears in his voice, 
struggled with his emotions, and pursued : “ My fortunes 
were more promising than hers ; there was no cause why 
I might not hope. True, I had a rival then ; young as 
myself — better born — comelier ; but she loved him not. 

I foresaw that his love for her — if love it were would 

cease. Methought that her mind would understand mine ; 
as mine— verily I say it— yearned for hers I I could not 
look on the maidens of mine own rank, and who had lived 
around me, but what — oh, no, my lord, again I say, not 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


133 


the beauty, but the gifts, the mind, the heart of Sibyll, 
threw them all into the shade. You may think it strange 
that 1 — a plain, steadfast, trading, working, careful man 
— should have all these feelings ; but I will tell you where- 
fore such as I sometimes have them, nurse them, brood 
on them, more than you lords and gentlemen, with all 
your graceful arts in pleasing. We know no light loves I 
no brief distractions to the one arch passion 1 We sober 
sons of the stall and the ware are no general gallants — 
we love plainly, we love but once, and we love heartily. 
But who knows not the proverb, ‘ What’s a gentleman 
but his pleasure?’ — and what’s pleasure but change? 
When Sibyll came to the palace, I soon heard her name 
linked with yours ; I saw her cheek blush when you spoke. 
Wrgll — well — well ! after all, as the old wives tell us, 
‘blushing is virtue’s livery.’ I said, ‘ She is a chaste and 
high-hearted girl.’ This will pass, and the time will come 
when she can compare your love and mine. Now, my 
lord, the time has come — I know that you seek her. 
Yea, at this moment, I know that her heart beats for 
your footstep. Say but one word — say that you love 
Sybill Warner with the thought of wedding her — say 
that, on your honor, noble Hastings, as gentleman and 
peer, and I will kneel at your feet, and beg your pardon 
for my vain follies, and go back to my ware, and work, 
and not repine. Say it! You are silent! Then I im- 
plore you, still as peer and gentleman, to let the honest 
rove save the maiden from the wooing that will blight 
II. — 12 


134 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


her pGace and blast her name ! And now, Lord Hast- 
ings, I wait your gracious answer.” 

The sensations experienced by Hastings, as Alwyn 
thus concluded, were manifold and complicated ; but, at 
the first, admiration and pity were the strongest. 

“ My poor friend,” said he, kindly, “ if you thus love 
a demoiselle deserving all my reverence, your words and 
thoughts bespeak you no unworthy pretender; but take 
my counsel, good Alwyn. Come not — thou from the 
Chepe — come not to the court for a wife. Forget this 
fantasy.” 

“ My lord, it is impossible I Forget I cannot — regret 
I may.” 

“ Thou canst not succeed, man,” resumed the nobleman 
more coldly, “nor couldst if William Hastings had never 
lived. The eyes of women accustomed to gaze on the 
gorgeous externals of the world, are blinded to plain 
worth like thine. It might have been different had the 
donzell never abided in a palace ; but, as it is, brave fel- 
low, learn how these wounds of the heart scar over, and 
the spot becomes hard and callous evermore What art 
thou. Master Nicholas Alwyn,” continued Hastings, 
gloomily, and with a withering smile — “what art thou, 
to ask for a bliss denied to me — to all of us — the bliss 
of carrying poetry into life — youth into manhood, by 
winning — the First Loved? But think not, sir lover, 
that I say this in jealousy or disparagement. Look 
yonder, by the leafless elm, the white robe of Sibyll 
Warner. Go and plead thy suit.” 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


135 


I understand you, my lord ?” said Alwyn, some- 
what confused and perplexed by the tone and the manner 
Hastings adopted. “ Does report err, and you do not 
love this maiden ? ” 

“Fair master,” returned Hastings, scornfully, “thou 
hast no right that I trow of, to pry into my thoughts and 
secrets ; I cannot acknowledge my judge in thee, good 
jeweller and goldsmith — enough, surely, in all courtesy, 
that I yield thee the precedence. Tell thy tale, as mov- 
ingly, if thou wilt, as thou hast told it to me ; say of me 
all that thou fanciest thou hast reason to suspect ; and if. 
Master Alwyn, thou woo and win the lady, fail not to ask 
me to thy wedding ! ” 

There was in this speech, and the bearing of the 
speaker, that superb levity, that inexpressible aiid con- 
scious superiority — that cold ironical tranquillity — which 
awe and humble men more than grave disdain or imperious 
passion. Alwyn ground his teeth as he listened, and 
gazed in silent despair and rage upon the calm lord. 
Neither of these men could strictly be called handsome. 
Of the two, Alwyn had the advantage of more youthful 
prime, of a taller stature, of a more powerful, though 
less supple and graceful, frame. In their very dress, 
there was little of that marked distinction between classes 
which then usually prevailed, for the dark cloth tunic and 
surcoat of Hastings made a costume even simpler than 
the bright-colored garb of the trader, with its broad 
trimmings of fur, and its aiglettes of elaborate lace. 
Between man and man, then, where was the visible, the 


136 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

mighty, the insurmountable difiference in all that can 
charm the fancy and captivate the eye, which, as he gazed, 
Alwyn confessed to himself there existed between the 
two. Alas ! how the distinctions least to be analyzed 
are ever the sternest I What lofty ease in that high-bred 
air — what histories of triumph seemed to speak in that 
quiet eye, sleeping in its own imperious lustre-— what 
magic of command in that pale brow — what spells of 
persuasion in that artful lip 1 Alwyn muttered to him- 
self, bowed his head involuntarily, and passed on at once 
from Hastings to Sibyll, who now, at the distance of some 
yards, had arrested her steps, in surprise to see the con- 
ference between the nobleman and the burgher. 

But as he approached Sibyll, poor Alwyn felt all the 
firmness and courage he had exhibited with Hastings, 
melt away. And the trepidation which a fearful but deep 
affection ever occasions in men of his character, made his 
movements more than usually constrained and awkward, 
as he cowered beneath the looks of the maid he so truly 
loved. 

“ Seekest thou me. Master Alwyn ? ” asked Sibyll, 
gently, seeing that, though he paused by her side, he 
spoke not. 

“ I do,” returned Alwyn, abruptly, and again he was 
silent. 

At length, lifting his eyes and looking round him, he 
saw Hastings at the distance, leaning against the ram- 
part, with folded arms, and the contrast of his rival’s 
cold and arrogant indifference, and his own burning veins 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


137 


and bleeding heart, roused up his manly spirit, and gave 
to his tongue the eloquence which emotion gains when it 
once breaks the fetters it forges to itself. 

“Look — look, Sibyll ! ” he said, pointing to Hastings 
-^“look I that man you believe loves you ? — if so^if he 
loved thee, would he stand yonder^ mark him — aloof, 
contemptuous, careless — while he knew that I was by 
your side ? ” 

Sibyll turned upon the goldsmith eyes full of innocent 
surprise— eyes that asked, plainly as eyes could speak — * 
“And wherefore not. Master Alwyn?” 

Alwyn so interpreted that look, and replied, as if she 
bad spoken — “Because he must know how poor and tame 
is that feeble fantasy, which alone can come from a soul, 
worn bare with pleasure, to that which I feel and now 
own for thee— the love of youth, born of the heart’s first 
vigor, — because he ought to fear that that love should 
prevail with thee, — because that love ought to prevail. 
Sibyll, between us, there are not imparity and obstacle. 
Oh, listen to me — listen still I Frown not — turn not 
away.” And, stung and animated by the sight of his 
rival, fired by the excitement of a contest on which the 
bliss of his own life and the weal of Sibyll ’s might de- 
pend, his voice was as the cry of a mortal agony, and 
affected the girl to the inmost recesses of her soul. 

“Oh, Alwyn, I frown not I” she said, sweetly — “oh, 
Alwyn, I turn not away I Woe is me to give pain to so 
kind and brave a heart; but ” 

“No. speak not yet. 1 have studied thee — I have 
12 * 


188 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


read thee as a scholar would read a book. I know thee 
proud — I know thee aspiring — I know thou art vain of 
thy gentle blood, and distasteful of ray yeoman ’s birth. 
There, I am not blind to thy faults, but I love thee de- 
spite them ; and to please those faults, I have toiled, 
schemed, dreamed, risen — I offer to thee the future with 
the certainty of a man who can command it. Wouldst 
thou wealth? — be patient (as ambition ever is) : in a 
few years thou shalt have more gold than the wife of 
Lord Hastings can command ; thou shalt lodge more 
statedly, fare more sumptuously ; * thou shalt walk on 
cloth of gold if thou wilt ! Wouldst thou titles ? — I will 
win them. Richard de la Pole, who founded the greatest 
duchy in the realm, was poorer than I, when he first 
served in a merchant’s ware. Gold buys all things now. 
Oh, would to heaven it could buy me thee 

“ Master Alwyn, it is not gold that buys love. Be 
soothed. What can I say to thee to soften the harsh 
word ' Nay ? ’” 

“You reject me, then, and at once. I ask not your 
hand now. I will wait, tarry, hope — I care not if for 
years ; — wait till I can fulfil all I promise thee I ” 

Sibyll, affected to tears, shook her head mournfully ; 
and there was a long and painful silence. Never was 
wooing more strangely circumstanced than this — the one 

* This was no vain promise of Master Alwyn. At that time, a 
successful trader made a fortune with signal rapidity, and enjoyed 
greater luxuries than most of the barons. All the gold in the 
country flowed into the coffers of the London merchants. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 139 

lover pleading wbile the other was in view — the one, 
ardent, impassioned ; the other, calm and passive — and 
the silence of the last, alas I having all the success which 
the words of the other lacked. It might be said that the 
choice before Sibyll was a type of the choice ever given, 
but in vain, to the child of genius. Here a secure and 
peaceful life — an honored home — a tranquil lot, free 
from ideal visions, it is true, but free also from the doubt 
and the terror — the storms of passion ; — there, the fatal 
influence of an affection, born of imagination, sinister, 
equivocal, ominous, but irresistible. And the child of 
genius fulfilled her destiny I 

“ Master Alwyn,’’ said Sibyll, rousing herself to the 
necessary exertion, “ I shall never cease gratefully to re- 
call thy generous friendship — never cease to pray fer- 
vently for thy weal below. But for ever and for ever let 
this content thee — I can no more.’’ 

Impressed by the grave and solemn tone of Sibyll, 
Alwyn hushed the groan that struggled to his lips, and 
gloomily replied — “I obey you, fair mistress, and I re- 
turn to my work-day life ; but ere I go, I pray you mis- 
think me not if I say this much ; — not alone for the bliss 
of hoping for a day in which I might call thee mine have 
I thus importuned — but, not less — I swear not less — 
from the soul’s desire to save thee from what I fear will 
but lead to woe and wayment, to peril and pain, to weary 
days and sleepless nights. ‘Better a little fire that 
warms than a great that burns.’ Dost thou think that 
Lord Hastings, the vain, the dissolute ” 


140 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

Cease, sir I ’’ said Sibyll proudly ; “ me reprove if 
thou wilt, but lower not my esteem for thee by slander 
against another I ” 

“ What 1 ” said Alwyn, bitterly ; “ doth even one word 
of counsel chafe thee ? I tell thee that if thou dreamest 
that Lord Hastings loves Sibyll Warner as man loves the 
maiden he would wed, — thou deceivest thyself to thine 
own misery. If thou wouldst prove it, go to him now 
— go and say, ‘Wilt thou give me that home of peace 
and honor — that shelter for my father’s old age under 
a son’s roof which the trader I despise proffers me in 
vain ? ” 

“If it were already proffered me — by said 

Sibyll, in a low voice, and blushing deeply. 

Alwyn started. “ Then I wronged him — and ” 

he added, generously, though with a faint sickness at his 
heart, “ I can yet be happy in thinking thou art so. 
Farewell, maiden, the saints guard thee from one memory 
of regret at what hath passed between us I ” 

He pulled his bonnet hastily over his brows, and de^ 
parted with unequal and rapid strides. As he passed 
the spot where Hastings stood leaning his arm upon the 
wall, and his face upon his hand, the nobleman looked 
up, and said — 

“Well, Sir Goldsmith, own at least that thy trial hath 
been a fair one I ” Then struck with the anguish written 
upon Alwyn’s face, he walked up to him, and, with a 
frank, com])assionate impulse, laid his hand on his 
shoulder ; “ Alwyn,” he said, “ I have felt what you feel 


THE LABT OP THE BARONS. 141 

now — I have survived it, and the world hath not pros- 
pered with me less I Take with you a compassion that 
respects, and does not degrade you.” 

“Do not deceive her, my lord — she trusts and loves 
you ! You never deceived man — the wide world says it 
• — dD not deceive woman I Deeds kill men — words wo- 
men 1 ” Speaking thus simply, Alwyn strode on, and 
vanished. 

Hastings slowly and silently advanced to Sibyll. Her 
rejection of Alwyn had by no means tended to reconcile 
him to the marriage he himself had proffered. He might 
well suppose that the girl, even if unguided by affection, 
would not hesitate between a mighty nobleman and an 
obscure goldsmith. His pride was sorely wounded that 
the latter should have even thought himself the equal of 
one whom he had proposed, though but in a passionate 
impulse, to raise to his own state. And yet, as he 
neared Sibyll, and, with a light footstep, she sprang for- 
ward to meet him, her eyes full of sweet joy and confi- 
dence, he shrank from an avowal which must wither up a 
heart opening thus all its bloom of youth and love to 
greet him. 

“Ah, fair lord,” said the maiden, “ was it kindly in thee 
to permit poor Alwyn to inflict on me so sharp a pain, 
and thou to stand calmly distant ? Sure, alas I that had 
thy humble rival proffered a crown, it had been the same 
to Sibyll I Oh, how the grief it was mine to cause grieved 
me ; and yet, through all, I had one selfish, guilty gleam 
2b 


142 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

of pleasure — to think that I had not been loved so well, 
if I were all unworthy the sole love I desire or covet I ” 

“And yet, Sibyll, this young man can in all, save wealth 
and a sounding name, give thee more than I can, — a heart 
undarkened by moody memories — a temper unsoured by 
the world’s dread and bitter lore of man’s frailty and 
earth’s sorrow. Ye are not far separated by ungenial 
years, and might glide to a common grave hand in hand ; 
but I, older in heart than in age, am yet so far thine elder 
in the last, that these hairs will be grey, and this form 
bent, while thy beauty is in its prime, and — but thou 
weepest ! ” 

“ I weep that thou shouldst bring one thought of time 
to sadden my thoughts, wliich are of eternity. Love 
knows no age — it foresees no grave I its happiness and 
its trust behold on the earth but one glory, melting into 
the hues of heaven, where they who love lastingly pass 
calmly on to live for ever I See, I weep not now I ” 

“And did not this honest burgher,” pursued Hastings, 
softened and embarrassed, but striving to retain his cnuel 
purpose, “ tell thee to distrust me ? — tell thee that my 
vows were false ? ” 

“Methinks, if an angel told me so, I should disbe- 
lieve 1 ” 

“Why, ^ook thee, Sibyll, suppose his warning true 

suppose that at this hour I sought thee with intent to 
say that that destiny which ambition weaves for itself 
forbade me to fulfil a word hotly spoken ? that I could 
not wed thee ? — should I not seem to thee a false wooer 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


143 


— a poor trifler with tny earnest heart — and so, couldst 
thou not recall the love of him whose truer and worthier 
homage yet lingers in thine ear, and with him be happy ? ” 

Sibyll lifted her dark eyes, yet humid, upon the unre- 
vealing face of the speaker, and gazed on him with wist- 
ful and inquiring sadness, then, shrinking from his side, 
she crossed her arms meekly on her bosom, and thus 
said — 

“If ever, since we parted, one such thought hath 
glanced across thee — one thought of repentance at the 
sacrifice of pride, or the lessening of power — which (she 
faltered, broke off the sentence, and resumed) — in one 
word, if thou wouldst retract, say it now, and I will not 
accuse thy falsehood, but bless thy truth.” 

“ Thou couldst be consoled, then, by thy pride of wo- 
man, for the loss of an unworthy lover?” 

“My lord, are these questions fair?” 

Hastings was silent. The gentler part of his nature 
struggled severely with the harder. The pride of Sibyll 
moved him no less than her trust ; and her love in both 
was so evident — so deep — so exquisitely contrasting the 
cold and frivolous natures amidst which his lot had fallen 
— that he recoiled from casting away for ever a heart 
never to be replaced. Standing on that bridge of life, 
with age before and youth behind, he felt that never again 
could he be so loved, or, if so loved, by one so worthy 
of whatever of pure affection, of young romance, was 
yet left to his melancholy and lonely soul. 

He took her hand, and, as she felt its touch, her firm- 


144 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


ness forsook her, her head drooped upon her bosom, and 
she burst into an agony of tears. 

“ 0, Sibyll, forgive me 1 Smile on me again, Sibyll ! ” 
exclaimed Hastings, subdued and melted. But, alas ! the 
heart once bruised and galled recovers itself but slowly, 
and it was many minutes before the softest words the 
eloquent lover could shape to sound sufficed to dry those 
burning tears, and bring back the enchanting smile, — 
nay, even then the smile was forced and joyless. They 
walked on for some moments, both in thought, till Hast- 
ings said — “ Thou lovest me, Sibyll, and art worthy of 
all the love that man can feel for maid ; and yet, canst 
thou solve me this question, nor chide me that I ask it — 
Dost thou not love the world and the world’s judgment 
more than me ? What is that which women call honor ? 
What makes them shrink from all love that takes not the 
form and circumstance of the world’s hollow rites ? Does 
love cease to be love, unless over its wealth of trust and 
emotion the priest mouths his empty blessing? Thou in 
thy graceful pride art angered if I, in wedding thee, 

should remember the sacrifice which men like me I own 

it fairly— deem as great as man can make ; and yet thou 
wouldst fly my love, if it wooed thee to a sacrifice of 
thine own ? ” 

Artfully was the question put, and Hastings smiled to 
himself in imagining the reply it must bring ; and then 
Sibyll answered with the blush which the very subject 
called forth. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 146 

“Alas, my lord, I am but a poor casuist, but I feel that 
if I asked thee to forfeit whatever men respect, — honor, 
and repute for valor, — to be traitor and dastard, thou 
couldst love me no more ; and marvel you, if when man 
wooes woman to forfeit all that her sex holds highest — 
to be in woman what dastard and traitor is in man — she 
hears her conscience and her God speak in a louder voice 
than can come from a human lip 1 The goods and pomps 
of the world we are free to sacrifice, and true love heeds 
and counts them not ; but true love cannot sacrifice that 
which makes up love — it cannot sacrifice the right to be 
loved below, the hope to love on in the realm above, the 
power to pray with a pure soul for the happiness it yearns 
to make, the blessing to seem ever good and honored in 
the eyes of the one by whom alone it would be judged — 
and therefore, sweet lord, true love never contemplates 
this sacrifice ; and if oiice it believe itself truly loved, it 
trusts with a fearless faith in the love on whom it leans.” 

“ Sibyll, would to Heaven I had seen thee in my youth ! 
Would to Heaven I were more worthy of thee I” And 
in that interview Hastings had no heart to utter what he 
had resolved — “Sibyll, I sought thee but to say, Fare- 
well.” 


ir. — 13 


K 


146 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS 


CHAPTER YI. 

Warwick returns — Appeases a discontented Prince — And confers 
with a revengeful Conspirator. 

It was not till late in the evening that Warwick arrived 
at his vast residence in London, where he found not only 
Marmaduke Nevile ready to receive him, but a more 
august expectant, in George Duke of Clarence. Scarcely 
had the earl crossed the threshold, when the duke seized 
his arm, and leading him into the room that adjoined the 
hall, said — 

“ Yerily, Edward is besotted no less than ever by his 
wife’s leech-like family. Thou knowest my appointment 
to the government of Ireland ; Isabel, like myself, cannot 
endure the subordinate vassalage we must brook at the 
court, with the queen’s cold looks and sour words. Thou 
knowest, also, with what vain pretexts Edward hath put 
me off; and now, this very day, he tells me that he hath 
changed his humor — that I am not stern enough for the 
Irish kernes — that he loves me too well to banish me, 
forsooth ; and that Worcester, the people’s butcher, but 
the queen’s favorite, must have the post so sacredly 
pledged to me. I see, in this, Elizabeth’s crafty malice. 
Is this struggle between king’s blood and queen’s kith to 
go on for ever ? ” 

“ Calm thyself, George ; I will confer with the king 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 14T 

to-raorrow, and hope to compass thy not too arrogant 
desire. Certes, a king’s brother is the fittest vice-king 
for the turbulent kernes of Ireland, who are ever flattered 
into obeisance by ceremony and show. The government 
was pledged to thee — Edward can scarcely be serious. 
Moreover, Worcester, though forsooth a learned man — 
{Mort-Dieu ! methinks that same learning fills the head 
to drain the heart!) — is so abhorred for his cruelties, 
that his very landing in Ireland will bring a new rebellion 
to add to our already festering broils and sores. Calm 
thyself, I say. Where didst thou leave Isabel ? ” 

“With my mother.” 

“And Anne? — the queen chills not her young heart 
with cold grace ? ” 

“ Nay — the queen dare not unleash her malice against 
Edward’s will ; and, to do him justice, he hath shown all 
honor to Lord Warwick’s daughter.” 

“ He is a gallant prince, with all his faults,” said the 
father, heartily, “and we must bear with him, George; 
for verily he hath bound men by a charm to love him. 
Stay, thou, and share my hasty repast, and over the wine 
we will talk of thy views. Spare me now for a moment ; 
I have to prepare work eno’ for a sleepless night. This 
Lincolnshire rebellion promises much trouble. Lord 
Willoughby has joined it — more than twenty thousand 
men are in arms. I have already sent to convene the 
knights and barons on whom the king can best depend, 
and must urge their instant departure for their halls, to 


148 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

raise men and meet the foe. While Edward feasts, his 
minister must toil. Tarry awhile till I return.” 

The earl re-entered the hall, and beckoned to Marma- 
duke, who stood amongst a group of squires. 

“Follow me, I may have work for thee.” Warwick 
took a taper from one of the servitors, and led the way 
to his own more private apartment. On the landing of 
the staircase by a small door, stood his body squire — “ Is 
the prisoner within ? ” 

“Yes, my lord.” 

“Good!” — The earl opened the door by which the 
squire had mounted guard, and bade Marmaduke wait 
without. 

The inmate of the chamber, whose dress bore the stains 
of fresh travel and hard riding, lifted his face hastily as 
the earl entered. 

“ Robin Hilyard,” said Warwick, “ I have mused much 
how to reconcile my service to the king with the grati- 
tude I owe to a man who saved me from great danger. 
In the midst of thy unhappy and rebellious designs, thou 
wert captured and brought to me ; the papers found on 
thee attest a Lancastrian revolt ; so ripening towards a 
mighty gathering — and so formidable from the adherents 
whom the gold and intrigues of King Louis have per- 
suaded to risk land and life for the Red Rose, that all 
the king’s friends can do to save his throne is now needed. 
In this revolt thou hast been the scheming brain, the 
master hand, the match to the bombard, the firebrand to 
the flax. Thou smilest, man ! Alas !' seest thou not 


THE LAST or THE BARONS. 


149 


that it is ray stern duty to send thee bound hand and 
foot before the king’s council — for the brake to wring 
from thee thy guilty secrets, and the gibbet to close thy 
days 

“I am prepared,” said Hilyard ; “when the bombard 
explodes, the match has become useless — when the flame 
smites the welkin, the firebrand is consumed ! ” 

“ Bold man ! what seest thou in this rebellion that can 
profit thee?” 

“ I see, looming through the chasms and rents made 
in the feudal order by civil war — the giant image of a 
free people.” 

“And thou wouldst be a martyr for the multitude, who 
deserted thee at Olney ? ” 

“As thou for the king, who dishonored thee at 
Shene ! ” 

Warwick frowned, and there was a moment’s pause; 
at last, said the earl — “Look you, Robin, 1 would fain 
not have on my hands the blood of a man who saved my 
life. I believe thee, though a fanatic and half madman 
— I believe thee true in word, as rash of deed. Swear to 
me on the cross of this dagger, that thou wilt lay aside 
all scheme and plot for this rebellion, all aid and share 
in civil broil and dissension, and thy life and liberty are 
restored to thee. In that intent, I have summoned my 
own kinsman, Marmaduke Nevile. He waits without 
the door — he shall conduct thee safely to the sea-shore 
— thou shalt gain in peace my government of Calais, and 
my seneschal there shall find thee all thou canst need — 
13 * 


150 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

meat for thy hunger and moneys for thy pastime. Accept 
my mercy — take the oath, and begone.” 

‘‘My lord,” answered Hilyard, much touched and 
affected — “blame not thyself if this carcase feed the 
crows — my blood be on mine own head ! I cannot take 
this oath ; I cannot live in peace ; strife and broil are 
grown to me food and drink. Oh, my lord ! thou knoWest 
not what dark and baleful memories made me an agent 
in God’s hand against this ruthless Edward ; ” and then 
passionately, with whitening lips and convulsive features, 
Hilyard recounted to the startled Warwick the same tale 
which had roused the sympathy of Adam Warner. 

The earl, whose affections were so essentially homely 
and domestic, was even more shocked than the scholar by 
the fearful narrative. 

“ Unhappy man I ” he said with moistened eyes — “from 
the core of ray heart, I pity thee. But thou, the scathed 
sufferer from civil war, wilt thou be now its dread re- 
viver ? ” 

“ If Edward had wronged thee, great earl, as me, poor 
franklin, what would be thine answer? In vain moralize 
to him whom the spectre of a murdered child and the 
shriek of a maniac wife haunt and hound on to vengeance ! 
So send me to rack and halter. Be there one curse more 
on the soul of Edward I ” 

“ Thou shalt not die through my witness,” said the 
earl, abruptly; and he quitted the chamber. 

Securing the door by a heavy bolt on the outside, he 
gave orders to his squire to attend to the comforts of the 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


151 


prisoner ; and then turning into his closet with Marma- 
duke, said — “I sent for thee, young cousin, with design 
to commit to thy charge one whose absence from England 
I deemed needful — that design I must abandon. Go 
back to the palace, and see, if thou canst, the king before 
he sleeps — say that this rising in Lincolnshire is more 
than a riot; it is the first burst of a revolution ! that I 
hold council here to-night, and every shire ere the morrow 
shall have its appointed captain. I will see the king at 
morning. Yet stay — gain sight of my child Anne ; she 
will leave the court to-morrow. I will come for her — 
bid her train be prepared ; she and the countess must 
away to Calais — England again hath ceased to be a home 
for women ! What to do with this poor rebel ? ” muttered 
the earl, when alone — “release him I cannot, slay him I 
will not. Hum — there is space enough in these walls to 
enclose a captive.” 


CHAPTER YII. 

The Fear and the Flight. 

King Edward feasted high, and Sibyll sat in her 
father’s chamber — she silent with thought of love, Adam 
silent in the toils of science. The Eureka was well-nigh 
finished — rising from its ruins, more perfect, more 
elaborate, than before. Maiden and scholar, each seem- 
ing near to the cherished goal — one to love’s genial altar, 
the other to fame’s lonely shrine. 


152 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


Evening advanced — night began — night deepened. 
King Edward’s feast was over, but still in his perfumed 
chamber the wine sparkled in the golden cup. It was 
announced to him that Sir Marmaduke Nevile, just arrived 
from the earl’s house, craved an audience. The king, 
preoccupied in deep reverie, impatiently postponed it till 
the morrow. 

‘‘To-morrow!” said the gentleman in attendance. 
“Sir Marmaduke bids me to say, fearful that the late 
hour would forbid his audience, that Lord Warwick him- 
self will visit your grace. I fear, sire, that the distur- 
bances are great indeed, for the squires and gentlemen 
in Lady Anne’s train have orders to accompany her to 
Calais to-morrow.” 

“ To-morrow, to-morrow I” repeated the king — “well, 
sir, you are dismissed.” 

The Lady Anne (to whom Sibyll had previously com- 
municated the king’s kindly consideration for Master 
Warner) had just seen Marmaduke, and learned the new 
dangers that awaited the throne and the realm. The 
Lancastrians were then openly in arms for the prince of 
her love, and against her mighty father ! 

The Lady Anne sat awhile, sorrowful and musing, and 
then, before yon crucihx, the Lady Anne knelt in prayer. 

Sir Marmaduke Nevile descends to the court below, 
and some three or four busy, curious gentlemen, not yet 
a-bed, seize him by the arm, and pray him to say what 
storm is in the wind. 

The night deepened still— the wine is drained in King 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


153 


Edward’s goblet — King Edward has left his chamber — 
and Sibjll, entreating her father, but in vain, to suspend 
his toil, has kissed the damps from his brow, and is about 
to retire to her neighboring room. She has turned to 
the threshold, when, hark! — a faint — a distant cry, a 
woman’s shriek, the noise of a clapping door 1 The voice 
— it is the voice of Anne I Sibyll passed the threshold 
— she is in the corridor — the winter moon shines through 
the open arches — the air is white and cold with frost. 
Suddenly the door at the farther end is thrown wide open, 
a form rushes into the corridor, it passes Sibyll, halts, 
turns round — “ Oh, Sibyll !” cried the Lady Anne, in a 
voice wild with horror, “ save me — aid — help 1 Merciful 
Heaven, the king 1 ” 

Instinctively, wonderingly, tremblingly, Sibyll drew 
Anne into the chamber she had just quitted, and as they 
gained its shelter — as Anne sank upon the floor, the 
gleam of cloth of gold flashed through the dim atmo- 
sphere, and Edward, yet in the royal robe in which he 
had dazzled all the eyes at his kingly feast, stood within 
the chamber. His countenance was agitated with pas- 
sion, and its clear hues flushed red with wine. At his 
entrance, Anne sprang from the floor, and rushed to 
Warner, who, in dumb bewilderment, had suspended his 
task, and stood before the Eureka, from which steamed 
and rushed the dark rapid smoke, while round and round, 
laboring and groaning, rolled its fairy wheels.* 

* The gentle reader will doubtless bear in mind that Master 
Warrer’s complicated model had but little resemblance to the 


154 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

“ Sir,” cried Anne, clinging to him convulsively, 
“you are a father — by your child’s soul, protect Lord 
Warwick’s daughter ! ” 

Roused from his abstraction by this appeal, the poor 
scholar wound his arm round the form thus clinging to 
him, and raising his head with dignity, replied, “Thy 
name, youth, and sex protect thee ! ” 

“TJuhaud that lady, vile sorcerer,” exclaimed the king 
— “ I am her protector. Come, Anne, sweet Anne, fair 
lady — thou mistakest — cornel” he whispered. “Give 
not to these low natures matter for guesses that do but 
shame thee. Let thy king and cousin lead thee back to 
thy sweet rest.” 

He sought, though gently, to loosen the arms that 
wound themselves round the old man ; but Anne, not 
heeding, not listening, distracted by a terror that seemed 
to shake her whole frame, and to threaten her very 
reason, continued to cry out loudly upon her father’s 
name — her great father, wakeful, then, for the baffled 
ravisher’s tottering throne I 

Edward had still sufficient possession of his reason to 
be alarmed lest some loiterer or sentry in the outer court 
might hear the cries which his attempts to soothe but 
the more provoked. Grinding his teeth, and losing 
patience, he said to Adam, “ Thou knowest me, friend 
— I am thy king. Since the Lady Anne, in her bewilder- 


models of the steam-engine in our own day, and that it was usually 
connected with other contrivances, for the better display ol the 
principle it was intended to illustrate. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


155 


ment, prefers thine aid to mine, help to bear her back to 
her apartment ; and thou, young mistress, lend thine arm. 
This wizard’s den is no fit chamber for our high-born 
guest.” 

“No, no; drive me not hence, Master Warner. That 
man — that king — give me not up to his — his ” 

“ Beware I ” exclaimed the king. 

It was not till now that Adam’s simple mind compre- 
hended the true cause of Anne’s alarm, which Sibyll still 
conjectured not, but stood trembling by her friend’s side, 
and close to her father. 

“ Do not fear, maiden,” said Adam Warner, laying his 
hand upon the loosened locks that swept over his bosom, 
“ for though I am old and feeble, God and his angels are 
in every spot where virtue trembles and resists. My 
lord king, thy sceptre extends not over a human soul ! ” 

“ Dotard, prate not to me ! ” said Edward, laying his 
hand on his dagger. 

Sibyll saw the movement, and instinctively placed her- 
self between her father and the king. That slight form, 
those pure, steadfast eyes, those features, noble at once 
and delicate, recalled to Edward the awe which had 
seized him in his first dark design ; and again that awe 
came over him. He retreated. 

“I mean harm to none,” said he, almost submissively; 
“ and if I am so unhappy as to scare with my presence 
the Lady Anne, I will retire, praying you, donzell, to see 
10 her state, and lead her back to her chamber when it 
BO pleases herself. Saying this much, I command you, 


156 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


old man, and you, maiden, to stand back while I but 
address one sentence to the Lady Anne.” 

With these words he gently advanced to Anne, and 
took her hand ; but, snatching it from him, the poor lady 
broke from Adam, rushed to the casement, opened it, and 
seeing some figures indistinct and distant in the court 
below, she called out in a voice of such sharp agony, 
that it struck remorse and even terror into Edward’s 
soul. 

“Alas !” he muttered, “she will not listen to me, her 
mind is distraught' ! What frenzy has been mine ! Par- 
don — pardon, Anne — oh, pardon ! ” 

Adam Warner laid his hand on the king’s arm, and he 
drew the imperious despot away as easily as a nurse leads 
a docile child. 

“ King ! ” said the brave old man, “ may God pardon 
thee ; for if the last evil hath been wrought upon this 
noble lady, David sinned not more heavily than thou.” 

“She is pure — inviolate — I swear it !” said the king, 
humbly. “Anne, only say that I am forgiven.” 

But Anne spoke not: her eyes were fixed — her lips 
had fallen — she was insensible as a corpse — dumb and 
frozen with her ineffable dread. Suddenly steps were 
heard upon the stairs ; the door opened, and Marmaduke 
Nevile entered abruptly. 

“Surely I heard my lady’s voice — surely ! What 
marvel this ? the king ! Pardon, ray liege ! ” — and he 
bent his knee. 

The sight of Marmaduke dissolved the spell of awe 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 151 

and repentant humiliation, which had chained a king’s 
dauntless heart. His wonted guile returned to him with 
his self-possession. 

“ Our wise craftsman’s strange and weird invention — 
(and Edward pointed to the Eureka) — “has seared our 
fair cousin’s senses, as, bj sweet St. George, it well might ! 
Go back. Sir Marmaduke ; we will leave Lady Anne for 
the moment to the care of Mistress Sibyll. Donzell, re- 
member my command. Come, sir — ” (and he drew the 
wondering Marmaduke from the chamber)-^ but as soon 
as he had seen the knight descend the stairs and regain 
the court, he returned to the room, and in a low stern 
voice, said — “ Look you. Master Warner, and you, dam- 
sel, if ever either of ye breathe one word of what has 
been your dangerous fate to hear and witness, kings have 
but one way to punish slanderers, and silence but one 
safeguard ! — trifle not with death I ” 

He then closed the door, and resought his own cham- 
ber.- The Eastern spices, which were burned in the 
sleeping-rooms of the great, still made the air heavy with 
their feverish fragrance. The king seated himself, and 
strove to recollect his thoughts, and examine the peril he 
had provoked. The resistance and the terror of Anne 
had effectually banished from his heart the guilty passion 
it had before harbored ; for emotions like his, and in 
such a nature, are quick of change. His prevailing feel- 
ing was one of sharp repentance, and reproachful shame. 
But, as he roused himself from a state of mind which 
light characters ever seek to escape, the image of the 

II.— 14 


158 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


dark-browed earl rose before him, and fear succeeded to 
mortification ; but even this, however well-founded, could 
not endure long in a disposition so essentially scornful 
of all danger. Before morning the senses of Anne must 
return to her. So gentle a bosom could be surely 
reasoned out of resentment, or daunted, at least, from be- 
traying to her stern father a secret that, if told, would 
smear the sward of England with the gore of thousands. 
What woman will provoke war and bloodshed ? And 
for an evil not wrought — for a purpose not fulfilled? 
The king was grateful that his victim had escaped him. 
He would see Anne before the earl could — and appease 
her anger — obtain her .silence! For Warner, and for 
Sibyll, they would not dare to reveal ; and, if they did, 
the lips that accuse a king soon belie themselves, while a 
rack can torture truth, and the doomsman be the only 
judge between the subject and the head that wears a 
crown ! 

Thus reasoning with himself, his soul faced the soli- 
tude. Meanwhile, Marmaduke regained the court-yard, 
where, as we have said, he had been detained in con- 
ferring with some of the gentlemen in the king’s service, 
who, hearing that he brought important tidings from the 
earl, had abstained from rest till they could learn if the 
progress of the new rebellion would bring their swords 
into immediate service. Marmaduke, pleased to be of 
importance, had willingly satisfied their curiosity, as far 
as he was able, and was just about to retire to his own 
chamber, when the cry of Anne had made hioi enter the 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


159 


postern door which led up tne stairs co Adam’s apart- 
ment, and which was fortunately not locked ; and now, 
on returning, he had again a new curiosity to allay. 
Having briefly said that Master Warner had taken that 
untoward hour to frighten the women with a machine 
that vomited smoke and howled piteously, Marmaduke 
dismissed the group to their beds, and was about to seek 
his own, when, looking once more towards the casement, 
he saw a white hand gleaming in the frosty moonlight, 
and beckoning to him. 

The knight crossed himself, and reluctantly ascended 
the stairs, and re-entered the wizard’s den. 

The Lady Anne had so far recovered herself, that a 
kind of unnatural calm had taken possession of her mind, 
and changed her ordinary sweet and tractable nature into 
one stern, obstinate resolution — to escape, if possible, 
that unholy palace. And as soon as Marmaduke re- 
entered, Anne met him at the threshold, and laying her 
hand convulsively on his arm, said — 

“By the name you bear — by your love to my father, 
aid me to quit these walls.” 

In great astonishment, Marmaduke stared, without 
reply. 

“ Do you deny me, sir ? ” said Anne, almost sternly. 

“Lady and mistress mine,’’ answered Marmaduke, “I 
am your servant in all things. Quit these walls — the 
palace ! — How ? — the gates are closed. Nay, and what 
would my lord say, if at night ” 

“ If at night!’’ repeated Anne, in a hollow voice; and 


160 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

then pausing, burst into a terrible laugh. Recovering 
herself abruptly, she moved to the door — “I will go 
forth alone, and trust in God and our Lady.” 

Sibyll sprang forward to arrest her steps, and Marma- 
duke hastened to Adam, and whispered — “Poor lady, is 
her mind unsettled ? Hast thou, in truth, distracted her 
with thy spells and glamour ? ” 

“ Hush ! ” answered the old man ; and he whispered in 
the Ne vile’s ear. 

Scarcely had the knight caught the words, than his 
cheek paled — his eyes flashed fire. “The great earl’s 
daughter 1” he exclaimed — “infamy — horror — she is 
right I ” He broke from the student, approached Anne, 
who still struggled with Sibyll, and kneeling before her, 
said, in a voice choked with passions at once fierce and 
tender — 

“Lady, you are right. Unseemly it maybe for one 
of your quality and sex to quit this place with me, and 
alone; but at least I have a man’s heart — a knight’s 
honor. Trust to me your safety, noble maiden, and I 
will cut your way, even through yon foul king’s heart, to 
your great father’s side I ” 

Anne did not seem quite to understand his words, but 
she smiled on him as he knelt, and gave him her hand. 
The responsibility he had assumed quickened all the in- 
tellect of the young knight. As he took and kissed the 
hand extended to him, he felt the ring upon his finger — 
the ring entrusted to him by Alwyn — tlie king’s signet- 
ring, before which would fly open every gate. He uttered 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


161 


a joyous exclamation, loosened his long night-cloak, and 
praying Anne to envelop her form in its folds, drew the 
hood over her head ; — he was about to lead her forth 
when he halted suddenly. 

“Alack,” said he, turning to Sibyll, “ even though we 
may escape the Tower, no boatman now can be found on 
the river. The way through the streets is dark and 
perilous, and beset with midnight ruffians.” 

“ Yerily,” said Warner, “ the danger is past now. Let 
the noble demoiselle rest here till morning. The king 
dare not again ” 

“ Dare not I ” interrupted Marmaduke. “Alas ! you 
little know King Edward.” 

At that name Anne shuddered, opened the door, and 
hurried down the stairs ; Sibyll and Marmaduke followed 
her. 

“ Listen, Sir Marmaduke,” said Sibyll. “ Close with- 
out the Tower is the house of a noble lady, the dame of 
Longueville, where Anne may rest in safety, while you 
seek Lord Warwick. I will go with you, if you can 
obtain egress for us both.” 

“ Brave damsel I ” said Marmaduke, with emotion — 
“but your own safety — the king’s anger — no — besides 
a third, your dress not concealed, would create the 
warder’s suspicion. Describe the house.” 

“ The third to the left, by the river’s side, with an 
arched porch, and the fleur-de-lis embossed on the walls.” 

“ It is not so dark but we shall find it. Fare you well, 
gentle mistress.” 

14 * 


L 


162 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


While they yet spoke, they had both reached the side 
of Anne. Sibyll still persisted in the wish to accompany 
her friend ; but Marmaduke’s representation of the peril 
to life itself, that might befall her father, if Edward learned 
she had abetted Anne’s escape, finally prevailed. The 
knight and his charge gained the outer gate. 

“Haste — haste. Master Warder!” he cried,^ beating 
at the door with his dagger till it opened jealously — 
“messages of importance to the Lord Warwick. We 
have the king’s signet. — Open!” 

The sleepy warder glanced at the ring — the gates 
were opened: they were without the fortress — they 
hurried on. 

“Cheer up, noble lady; you are safe — you shall be 
avenged ! ” said Marmaduke, as he felt the steps of his 
companion falter. 

But the reaction had come. The ejffort Anne had 
hitherto made was for escape — for liberty; the strength 
ceased, the object gained; — her head drooped — she, 
muttered a few incoherent words, and then sense and life 
left her. Marmaduke paused in great perplexity and 

alarm. But lo, a light in a house before him! that 

house the third to the river — the only one with the 
arched porch described by Sibyll. He lifted the light 
and holy burthen in his strong arms — he gained the 
door : to his astonishment, it was open — a light burned 
on the stairs — he heard, in the upper room, the sound 
of whispered voices, and quick, soft footsteps hurrying 
to and fro. Still bearing the insensible form of his com 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


168 


panion, he ascended the staircase, and entered at once 
upon a chamber, in which, by a dim lamp, he saw some 
two or three persons assembled round a bed in the 
recess. A grave man advanced to him, as he paused at 
the threshold — 

“Whom seek you?” 

“The Lady Longueville.” 

“ Hush ! ” • 

“Who needs me?” said a faint voice, from the cur- 
tained recess. 

“ My name is Hevile,” answered Marmaduke, with 
straightforward brevity. “ Mistress Sibyll Warner told 
me of this house, where I come for an hour’s shelter to 
my companion, the Lady Anne, daughter of the Earl of 
Warwick.” 

Marmaduke resigned his charge to an old woman, who 
was the nurse in that sick-chamber, and who lifted the 
hood, and chafed the pale, cold hands of the young 
maiden ; the knight then strode to the recess. The lady 
of Longueville was on the bed of death — an illness of 
two days had brought her to the brink of the grave — 
but there was in her eye and countenance a restless and 
preternatural animation, and her voice was clear and 
shrill, as she said — 

“Why does the daughter of Warwick, the Yorkist, 
seek refuge in the house of the fallen and childless Lan- 
castrian ? ” 

“ Swear, by thy hopes in Christ, that thou wilt tend 
and guard her while I seek the earl, and I reply.” 


164 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


“ Stranger, my name is Longuevllle — ray birth noble 
— those pledges of hospitality and trust are stronger than 
hollow oaths. Say on 1 ’’ 

“ Because, then,^’ whispered the knight, after waiving 
the bystanders from the spot — “because the earl’s 
daughter flies dishonor in a king’s palace, and her in- 
sulter is the king ! ” 

Before the dying wolfian could reply, Anne, recovered 
by the cares of the experienced nurse, suddenly sprang 
to the recess, and kneeling by the bed-side, exclaimed, 
wildly — 

“Save me! — hide me! — save me!” 

“ Go and seek the earl, whose right hand destroyed my 
house and his lawful sovereign’s throne — go 1 I will live 
till he arrives ! ” said the childless widow, and a wild 
gleam of triumph shot over her haggard features. 


CHAPTER Till. 

The group round the Death-bed of the Lancastrian Widow. 

The dawning sun gleamed through grey clouds upon 
a small troop of men, armed in haste, who were grouped 
round a covered litter by the outer door of the Lady 
Longueville’s house ; while in the death-chamber, the 
Earl of Warwick, with a face as pale as the dying wo- 
man’s, stood beside the bed — Anne calmly leaning on bis 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


165 


breast, her eyes closed, and tears yet moist on their long 
fringes. 

“Ay — ay ---ay I” said the Lancastrian noblewoman, 
“ye men of wrath and turbulence should reap what ye 
have sown ! This is the king for whom ye dethroned 
the sainted Henry I this the man for whom ye poured 
forth the blood of England’s best I Ha ! — ha ! — Look 
down from heaven, my husband, my martyr-sons ! The 
daughter of your mightiest foe flies to this lonely hearth 
— flies to the death-bed of the powerless woman for 
refuge from the foul usurper whom that foe placed upon 
the throne ! ” 

“ Spare me,” muttered Warwick, in a low voice, and 
between his grinded teeth. The room had been cleared, 
and Doctor Godard (the grave man who had first accosted 
Marmaduke, and who was the priest summoned to the 
dying) alone — save the scarce conscious Anne herself — 
witnessed the ghastly and awful conference. 

“ Hush, daughter,” said the man of peace, lifting the 
solemn crucifix — “calm thyself to holier thoughts.” 

The lady impatiently turned from the priest, and grasp- 
ing the strong right arm of Warwick with her shrivelled 
and trembling fingers, resumed, in a voice that struggled 
to repress the gasps which broke its breath — 

“But thou — oh, thou, wilt bear this indignity I thou, 
the chief of England’s barons, wilt see no dishonor in the 
rank love of the vilest of England’s kings 1 Oh, yes, ye 
Yorkists have the hearts of varlets — not of men and 
fathers I ” 


166 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


“ By the symbol from which thou turnest, woman ! ” 
exclaimed the earl, giving vent to the fury which the 
presence of death had before suppressed — “by Him, to 
whom, morning and night, I have knelt in grateful bless- 
ing for the virtuous life of this beloved child, T will have 
such revenge on the recreant whom I kinged, as shall 
live in the Rolls of England till the trump of the Judg- 
ment Angel ! ” 

“ Father,’’ said Anne, startled by her father’s vehe- 
mence, from her half-swoon sleep — “ Father, think no 
more of the past — take me to my mother ! I want the 
clasp of my mother’s arms ! ” 

“Leave us — leave the dying. Sir Earl and son,” said 
Godard. “I, too, am Lancastrian — I too would lay 
down my life for the holy Henry ; but I shudder, in the 
hour of death, to hear yon pale lips, that should pray for 
pardon, preach to thee of revenge.” 

“ Revenge ! ” shrieked out the Dame of Longueville, 
as, sinking fast and fast, she caught the word — “ Re- 
venge ! Thou hast sworn revenge on Edward of York, 

Lord Warwick — sworn it, in the chamber of death in 

the ear of one who will carry that word to the hero-dead 
of a hundred battle-fields! Ha! — the sun has risen! 
Priest — Godard — thine arms — support — raise — bear me 
to the casement ! Quick — cjuick ! I would see my king 
once more ! Quick— quick ! and then— will hear 
thee pray ! ” 

The priest, half chiding, yet half in pity, bore the dying 
woman to the casement. She motioned to him to open 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 167 

it : be obeyed. The sun, just above the welkin, shone 
over the lordly Thames, gilded the gloomy fortress of the 
Tower, and glittered upon the window of Henry’s prison. 

“ There — there ! It is he — it is my king ! Hither — 
lord, rebel earl — hither. Behold your sovereign. Re- 
pent, revenge 1 > O i 

With her livid and outstretched hand, the Lancastrian 
pointed to the huge Wakefield Tower.-' The earl’s dark 
eye beheld in the dim distance, a pale and reverend coun- 
tenance, recognized even from afar. The dying woman 
fixed her glazing eyes upon the wronged and mighty 
baron, and suddenly her arm fell to her side, the face be- 
came set as into stone, the last breath of life gurgled 
within, and fled — and still those glazing eyes were fixed 
on the earl’s hueless face : and still in his ear, and echoed 
by a thousand passions in his heart — thrilled the word 
which had superseded prayer, and in which the sinner’s 
Boul had flown — revenge I ’ " 

• { 

>. 





BOOK NINTH. 


THE WANDERERS AND THE EXILES. 


CHAPTER I. 

How the great Baron becomes as great a Rebel. 

Hilyard was yet asleep in the chamber assigned to 
him as his prison, when a rough grasp shook off his slum- 
bers, and he saw the earl before him, with a countenance 
so changed from its usual open majesty — ■ so dark and 
sombre, that he said, involuntarily, “ You send me to the 
doomsman — I am ready ! ” 

“ Hist, man ! Thou hatest Edward of York 
“An’ it were my last word — yes I” 

“ Give me thy hand — we are friends I Stare not at me 
with those eyes of wonder — ask not the why nor where- 
fore I This last night gave Edward a rebel more in 

Richard Nevile. A steed waits thee at my gates ride 

fast to young Sir Robert Welles with this letter. Bid 
him not be dismayed; bid him hold out — for ere many 
days are past, Lord Warwick, and it may be, also, the 
Duke of Clarence, will join their force with his. Mark, 

( 168 ) 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 169 

1 say not that I am for Henry of Lancaster — I say only 
that I am against Edward of York. Farewell, and when 
we meet again, blessed be the arm that first cuts its way 
to a tyrant’s heart I ” 

Without another w'ord, Warwick left the chamber. 
Hilyard, at first, could not believe his senses ; but as he 
dressed himself in haste, he pondered over all those causes 
of dissension which had long notoriously subsisted be- 
tween Edward and the earl, and rejoiced that the pro- 
phecy he had long so shrewdly hazarded was at last ful- 
filled. Descending the stairs, he gained the gate, where 
Marmaduke awaited him, while a groom held a stout 
haquenee (as the common riding-horse was then called), 
whose points and breeding promised speed and endurance. 

“ Mount, Master Robin,” said Marmaduke ; “ I little 
thought we should ever ride as friends together 1 Mount 
— our way for some miles out of London is the same. 
You go into Lincolnshire — I into the shire of Hertford.” 

“And for the same purpose?” asked Hilyard, as he 
sprang upon his horse, and the two men rode briskly on. 

“ Yes I 

“Lord Warwick is changed at last.” 

“At last ! ” 

“ For long ?” 

“ Till death I ” 

“Good — I ask no more!” 

A sound of hoofs behind made the franklin turn his 
head, and he saw a goodly troop, armed to the teeth, 

II. — 15 


no 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


emerge from the earl’s house and follow the lead of 
Marmaduke. 

Meanwhile Warwick was closeted with Montagu. 

Worldly as the latter was, and personally attached to 
Edward, he was still keenly alive to all that touched the 
honor of his house ; and his indignation at the deadly 
insult offered to his niece was even more loudly expressed 
than that of the fiery earl. 

“ To deem,” he exclaimed, “to deem Elizabeth Wood- 
ville worthy of his throne, and to see in Anne Nevile one 
only worthy to be his leman I ” 

“Ay I” said the earl, with a calmness perfectly terrible, 
from its unnatural contrast to his ordinary heat, when 
but slightly chafed, “Ay ! thou sayest it I But be tran- 
quil — cold — cold as iron, and as hard 1 We must scheme 
now, not storm and threaten — I never schemed before ! 
You are right — honesty is a fool’s policy ! Would I had 
known this but an hour before the news reached me I I 
have already dismissed our friends to their different dis- 
tricts, to support King Edward’s cause — he is still king 
— a little while longer king I Last night, I dismissed 
them — last night, at the very hour when — O God, give 
me patience ! ” He paused, and added, in a low voice, 
“Yet — yet — how long the moments are — how long I 
Ere the sun sets, Edward, I trust, will be in my power !” 

“How?” 

“ He goes, to-day, to the More — he will not go the 
less for what hath chanced ; he will trust to the arch- 
bishoj) to make his peace with me — churchmen are not 


THE LAST OF THE BaEONS. 171 

fathers I Marmaduke Nevile hath my orders — a hundred 
armed men, who would march against the Fiend himself, 
if I said the word, will surround the More, and seize the 
guest 1 ” 

“ But what then ? Who, if Edward — I dare not say 
the word ; — who is to succeed him ? 

“ Clarence is the male heir ! ” 

“But with what face to the people — proclaim ” 

“There — there it is!’’ interrupted Warwick. “I 
have thought of that — I have thought of all things ; my 
mind seems to have traversed worlds since daybreak I 
True I all commotion to be successful must have a cause 
that men can understand. Nevertheless, you, Montagu 
— you have a smoother tongue than I ; go to our friends 
— to those who hate Edward — seek them, sound them 1’’ 
“And name to them Edward’s infamy I ” 

“ ’Sdeath, dost thou think it I Thou, a Monthermer 
and Montagu 1 proclaim to England the foul insult to 
the hearth of an English gentleman and peer I feed every 
ribald Bourdour with song and roundel of Anne’s virgin 
shame I how King Edward stole to her room at the dead 
of night, and wooed and pressed, and swore, and — God 
of Heaven, that this hand were on his throat I No, bro- 
ther, no! there are some wrongs we may not tell — 
tumors and swellings of the heart, which are eased not 
till blood can flow I” 

During this conference between the brothers, Edward, 
in his palace, was seized with consternation and dismay 
on hearing that the Lady Anne could not be found in 


IT2 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

her chamber. He sent forthwith to summon Adam 
Warner to his presence, and learned from the simple sage, 
who concealed nothing, the mode in which Anne had fled 
from the Tower. The king abruptly dismissed Adam, 
after a few hearty curses and vague threats ; and awaking 
to the necessity of inventing some plausible story, to ac- 
count to the wonder of the court for the abrupt disap- 
pearance of his guest, he saw that the person who could 
best originate and circulate such a tale was the queen ; 
and he sought her at once, with the resolution to choose 
his confidant in the connection most rarely honored by 
marital trust, in similar offences. He, however, so softened 
his narrative as to leave it but a venial error. He had 
been indulging over-freely in the wine-cup — he had 
walked into the corridor, for the refreshing coolness of 
the air — he had seen the figure of a female whom he did 
not recognize ; and a few gallant words, he scarce re- 
membered what, had been misconstrued. On perceiving 
whom he had thus addressed, he had sought to soothe 
the anger or alarm of the Lady Anne ; but still mis- 
taking his intention, she had hurried into Warner’s cham- 
ber — he had followed her thither — and now she had fled 
the palace. Such was his story, told lightly and laugh- 
ingly, but ending with a grave enumeration of the dangers 
his imprudence had incurred. 

Whatever Elizabeth felt, or however she might interpret 
the confession, she acted with her customary discretion ; 
affected, after a few tender reproaches, to place implicit 
credit in lier lord's account, and volunteered to prevent 


the last of the barons. 173 

all scandal by the probable story, that the earl, being 
prevented from coming in person for his daughter, as he 
had purposed, by fresh news of the rebellion which might 
call him from London with the early day, had commis- 
sioned his kinsman, Marmaduke, to escort her home. 
The quick perception of her sex told her that, whatever 
licence might have terrified Anne into so abrupt a flight, 
the haughty earl would shrink no less than Edward him- 
self from making public an insult which slander could 
well distort into the dishonor of his daughter ; and that 
whatever pretext might be invented, Warwick would not 
deign to contradict it. And as, despite Elizabeth’s hatred 
to the earl, and desire of permanent breach between 
Edward and his minister, she could not, as queen, wife, 
and woman, but be anxious that some cause more honor- 
able in Edward, and less odious to the people, should be 
assigned for quarrel, — she earnestly recommended the 
king to repair at once to the More, as had been before 
arranged, and to spare no pains, disdain no expressions 
of penitence and humiliation, to secure the mediation of 
the archbishop. His mind somewhat relieved by this 
interview and counsel, the king kissed Elizabeth with 
affectionate gratitude, and returned to his chamber to 
prepare for his departure to the archbishop’s palace. 
But then remembering that Adam and Sibyll possessed 
his secret, he resolved at once to banish them from the 
Tower. For a moment he thought of the dungeons of 
his fortress — of the rope of his doomsman ; but his con- 
science at that hour was sore and vexed. His fierceness 
15* 2t 


174 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

humbled by the sense of shame, he shrunk from a new 
crime ; and, moreover, his strong common sense assured 
him that the testimony of a shunned and abhorred wizard 
ceased to be of weight the moment it was deprived of 
the influence it took from the protection of a king. He 
gave orders for a boat to be in readiness by the gate of 
St. Thomas, again summoned Adam into his presence, 
and said, briefly, “ Master Warner, the London mechanics 
cry so loudly against thine invention, for lessening labor 
and starving the poor, the sailors on the wharfs are so 
mutinous, at the thought of vessels without rowers, that, 
as a good king is bound, I yield to the voice of my people. 
Go home, then, at once ; the queen dispenses with thy 
fair daughter’s service — the damsel accompanies thee. 
A boat awaits ye at the stairs ; a guard shall attend ye 
to your house. Think what has passed within these walls 
has been a dream ; a dream that, if told, is deathful — if 
concealed and forgotten, hath no portent 1 ” 

Without waiting a reply, the king called from the ante- 
room one of his gentlemen, and gave him special direc- 
tions as to the departure and conduct of the worthy 
scholar and his gentle daughter. Edward next sum- 
moned before him the warder of the gate, learned that 
he alone was privy to the mode of his guest’s flight, and 
deemed it best to leave at large no commentator on the 
tale he had invented, sentenced the astonished warder to 
three months’ solitary imprisonment — for appearing be- 
fore him with soiled hosen ! An hour afterwards, the 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS 1*15 

king, with a small though* gorgeous retinue, was on his 
way to the More. 

The archbishop had, according to his engagement, as- 
sembled in his palace the more powerful of the discon- 
tented seigneurs ; and his eloquence had so worked upon 
them, that Edward beheld, on entering the hall, only 
countenances of cheerful loyalty and respectful welcome. 
After the first greetings, the prelate, according to the 
custom of the day, conducted Edward into a chamber, 
that he might refresh himself with a brief rest and the 
bath, previous to the banquet. 

Edward seized the occasion, and told his tale ; but, 
however softened, enough was left to create the liveliest 
dismay in his listener. The lofty scaffolding of hope, 
upon which the ambitious prelate was to mount to the 
papal throne seemed to crumble into the dust. The king 
and the earl were equally necessary to the schemes of 
George Nevile. He chid the royal layman with more 
•than priestly^ unction for his offence ; but Edward so 
humbly confessed his fault, that the prelate at length 
relaxed his brow, and promised to convey his penitent 
assurances to the earl. 

“ Not an hour should be lost,” he said ; “the only one 
who can soothe his wrath is your highness’s mother, our 
noble kinswoman. Permit me to despatch to her grace 
a letter, praying her to seek the earl, while I write by 
the same courier to himself.” 

“Be it all as you will,” said Edward, doffing his sur- 
coat, and dipping his hands in a perfumed ewer, “ I shall 


176 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

not know rest till I have knelt to the Lady Anne, and 
won her pardon.’’ 

The prelate retired, and scarcely had he left the room 
when Sir John Ratclifife,* one of the’ king’s retinue, and 
in waiting on his person, entered the chamber, pale and 
trembling. 

“ My liege,” he said, in a whisper, “ I fear some deadly 
treason awaits you. I have seen, amongst the trees below 
this tower, the gleam of steel ; I have crept through the 
foliage, and counted no less than a hundred armed men 

— their leader is Sir Marmaduke Nevile, Earl Warwick’s 
kinsman ! ” 

“ Ha ! ” muttered the king, and his bold face fell — 
“comes the earl’s revenge so soon?” 

“And,” continued Ratcliffe, “ I overheard Sir Marma- 
duke say, ‘ The door of the Garden Tower is unguarded 

— wait the signal I ’ Fly, my liege I Hark ! even now, 
I hear the rattling of arms!” 

The king stole to the casement — the day was closing ; 
the foliage grew thick and dark around the wall ; he saw 
an armed man emerge from the shade — a second, and a 
third. 

“ You are right, Ratcliffe ! Flight — but how ? ” 

* Afterwards Lord Fitzwalter. See ‘‘Lingard,” note, vol. iii., 
p. 507, quarto edition, for the proper date to be assigned to this 

royal visit to the More; — a date we have here adopted not as 

Sharon Turner and others place, — viz. (upon the authority of 
Hearne’s Fragmen., 302, which subsequent events di.sprove) after 
the open rebellion of Warwick, but just before it — that is, not after 
Easter, but before Lent. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 171 

“ This way, my liege. By the passage I entered, a 
stair winds to a door on the inner court ; there, I have 
already a steed in waiting. Deign, for precaution, to 
use my hat and manteline.” 

The king hastily adopted the suggestion, followed the 
noiseless steps of Ratcliffe, gained the door, sprang upon 
his ateed, and dashing right through a crowd assembled 
by the gate, galloped alone and fast, untracked by human 
enemy, but goaded by the foe that mounts the rider’s 
steed — over field, over fell, over dyke, through hedge, 
and in the dead of night reined in at last before the royal 
towers of Windsor. 


CHAPTER II. 

Many Things briefly told. 

The events that followed the king’s escape were rapid 
and startling. The barons assembled at the More, en- 
raged at Edward’s seeming distrust of them, separated 
in loud anger. The archbishop learned the cause from 
one of his servitors, who detected Marmaduke’s ambush, 
but he was too wary to make known a circumstance sus- 
picious to himself. He flew to London, and engaged the 
mediation of the Duchess of York to assist his own.* 
The earl received their joint overtures with stern and 
ominous coldness, and abruptly repaired to Warwick, 

* Lingai d, See for the dates, Fabyan, 657. 


M 


ns THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

taking with him the Lady Anne. There he was joined, 
the same day, by the Duke and Duchess of Clarence 

The Lincolnshire rebellion gained head : Edward made 
a dexterous feint in calling, by public commission, upon 
Clarence and Warwick to aid in dispersing it; if they 
refused, the odium of first aggression would seemingly 
rest with them. Clarence, more induced by personal am- 
bition than sympathy with Warwick’s wrong, incensed 
by his brother’s recent slights, looking to Edward’s resigna- 
tion and his own consequent accession to the throne, and 
inflamed by the ambition and pride of a wife whom he at 
once feared and idolized, went hand in heart with the 
earl ; but not one lord and captain whom Montagu had 
sounded lent favor to the deposition of one brother for 
the advancement of the next. Clarence, though popular, 
was too young to be respected : many there were who 
would rather have supported the earl, if an aspirant to 
the throne ; but, that choice forbidden by the earl him- 
self, there conld be but two parties in England — the one 
for Edward IT., the other for Henry YI. 

Lord Montagu had repaired to Warwick Castle, to 
communicate in person this result of his diplomacy. The 
earl, whose manner was completely changed, no longer 
frank and hearty, but close and sinister, listened in gloomy 
silence. 

“And now,” said Montagu, with the generous emotion 
of a man whose nobler nature was stirred deeply, “if you 
lesolve on war with Edward, I am willing to renounce 
my own ambition, the hand of a king’s daughter for my 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


179 


son — so that I may avenge the honor of our common 
name. I confess that I have so loved Edward that I 
would fain pray you to pause, did I not distrust myself, 
lest in such delay, his craft should charm me back to the 
old affection. Nathless, to your arm, and your great 
soul, I have owed all, and if you are resolved to strike 
the blow, I am ready to share the hazard.” 

The earl turned away his face, and wrung his brother's 
hand. 

“Our father, raethinks, hears thee from the grave!” 
said he, solemnly, and there was a long pause. At length 
Warwick resumed: “Return to London: seem to take 
no share in my actions, whatever they be ; if I fail, why 
drag thee into my ruin ? — and yet, trust me, I am rash 
and fierce no more. He who sets his heart on a great 
object suddenly becomes wise. When a throne is in the 
dust — when from St. Paul’s Cross a voice goes forth, to 
Carlisle and the Land’s End, proclaiming that the reign 
of Edward the Fourth is past and gone — then, Montagu, 
I claim thy promise of aid and fellowship — not before I ” 

Meanwhile, the king, eager to dispel thought in action, 
rushed in person against the rebellious forces. Stung by 
fear into cruelty, he beheaded, against all kingly faith, 
his hostages. Lord Welles and Sir Thomas Dymoke, 
summoned Sir Robert Welles, the leader of the revolt, to 
surrender; received for answer, “that Sir Robert Welles 
would not trust the perfidy of tlic man who had mur- 
dered his father ! ” — pushed on to Erpingham, defeated 
the rebels in a signal battle, and crowned his victory by 


180 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


a series of ruthless cruelties — committed to the fierce and 
learned Earl of Worcester, “Butcher of England.”* 
With the prompt vigor and superb generalship which 
Edward ever displayed in war, he then cut his gory way 
to the force which Clarence and Warwick (though their 
hostility was still undeclared) had levied, with the intent 
to join the defeated rebels. He sent his herald. Garter 
King-at-arras, to summon the earl and the duke to appear 

* Stowe. Warkworth Chronicle — Cont. Croyl. Lord Worcester 
ordered Clapham (a squire to Lord Warwick), and nineteen others, 
gentlemen "and yeomen, to be impaled, and from the horror the spec- 
tacle inspired, and the universal odium it attached to Worcester, it 
is to be feared that the unhappy men were still sensible to the 
agony of this infliction, though they appear first to have been 
drawn and partially hanged ; — outrage confined only to the dead 
bodies of rebels, being too common at that day to have excited the 
indignation which attended the sentence Worcester passed on his 
victims. It is in vain that some writers would seek to cleanse the 
memory of this learned nobleman from the stain of cruelty, by 
rhetorical remarks on the improbability that a cultivator of letters 
should be of a ruthless disposition. The general philosophy of this 
defence is erroneous. In ignorant ages, a man of superior acquire- 
ments is not necessarily made humane by the cultivation of his 
intellect ; on the contrary, he too often learns to look upon the un- 
educated herd as things of another clay. Of this truth all history 
is pregnant — witness the accomplished tyrants of Greece, the pro- 
found and cruel intellect of the Italian Borgias. Richard III. and 
Henry VIII. were both highly educated for their age. But in the 
case of Tiptoft, Lord Worcester, the evidence of his cruelty is no 

less incontestible than that which proves his learning the Croy- 

land historian alone is unimpeachable. Worcester’s popular name 
of “ the Butcher,” is sufficient testimony in itself. The people are 
often mistaken, to be sure, but can scarcely be so upon the one 
point — w'hether a man who has sat in judgment on themselves be 
merciful or cruel 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 181 

before him within a certain day. The time expired ; ho 
proclaimed them traitors, and offered rewards for their 
apprehension ! ” 

So sudden had been Warwick’s defection — so rapid 
the king’s movements — that the earl had not time to 
mature his resources, assemble his vassals, consolidate his 
schemes. His very preparations, upon the night on which 
Edward had repaid his services by such hideous ingrati- 
tude, had manned the country with armies aga'inst him- 
self. Girt but with a scanty force collected in haste (and 
which consisted merely of his retainers, in the single 
shire of Warwick), the march of Edward cut him off 
from the counties in which his name was held most dear 
— in which his trumpet could raise up hosts.' He was 
disappointed in the aid he had expected from his power- 
ful but self-interested, brother-in-law, Lord Stanley. Re- 
venge had become more dear to him than life : life must 
not be hazarded, lest revenge be lost. On still marched 
the king ; and the day that his troo])s entered Exeter, 
Warwick, the females of his family, with Clarence, aiid a 
small but armed retinue, took ship from Dartmouth, 
sailed for Calais (before which town, while at anchor, 
Isabel was confined of her first-born ) — to the earl’s rage 
and dismay, his deputy Yauclerc fired upon his ships. 
Warwick then steered on towards Normandy, captured 
some Flemish vessels by the way, in token of defiance to 
the earl’s old Burgundian foe — and landed at Harfleur, 

* One thousand pounds in money, or one hundred pounds a year 
•II land ; an immense reward for that day, 

II. — 16 


182 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

where he and his companions were received with royal 
honors by the Admiral of France, and finally took their 
way to the court of Louis XL, at Amboise. 

“ The danger is past for ever ! ” said King Edward, as 
the wine sparkled in his goblet. “ Rebellion hath lost its 
head— and now, indeed, and for the first time, a monarch 
I reign alone I ” * 

* Before. leaving England, Warwick and Clarence ai’e generally 
said to have fallen in with Anthony Woodville and Lord Audley, 
and ordered them to execution; from which they wei'e saved by a 
Dorsetshire gentleman. Carte, who, though his history is not with- 
out great mistakes, is well worth reading by those whom the cha- 
racter of Lord Warwick may interest, says, that the earl had “too 
much magnanimity to put them to death immediately, according to 
the common practice of the times, and only imprisoned them in the 
castle of Wardour, from whence they were soon rescued by John 
Thornhill, a gentleman of Dorsetshire.” The whole of this story 
is, however, absolutely contradicted by the “ Warkworth Chroni- 
cle,” (p. 9, edited by Mr. Halliwell), according to which authority 
Anthony Woodville was at that time commanding a fleet upon the 
Channel, which waylaid Warwick on his voyage; but the success 
therein attributed to the gallant Anthony, in dispersing or seizing 
all the earl’s ships, save the one that bore the earl himself and his 
family, is proved to be purely fabulous, by the earl’s well-attested 
capture of the Flemish vessels, as he passed from Calais to the 
coasts of Normandy, an exploit he could never have performed 
with a single vessel of his own. It is very probable that the story 
of Anthony Woodville’s capture and peril at this time originates in 
a misadventure many years before, and recorded in the Paston 
letters, as well as in the Chronicles. — In the year 1459, Anthony 
Woodville and his father. Lord Rivers (then zealous Lancastrians), 
really did fall into the hands of the Earl of March (Edward IV.), 
Warwick and Salisbury, and got otf with a sound “rating” upon 
the rude language which such “knaves’ sons” and “little squires” 
had held to those “ who were of kings’ blood.” 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


183 


CHAPTER III. 

The Plot of the Hostelry — The Maid and the Scholar in their 
Home. 

The country was still disturbed, and the adherents, 
whether of Henry or the earl, still rose in many an out- 
break, though prevented from swelling into one common 
array by the extraordinary vigor not only of Edward, but 
of Gloucester and Hastings, — when one morning, just 
after the events thus rapidly related, the hostelry of 
Master Sancroft, in the suburban parish of Marybone, 
rejoiced in a motley crowd of customers and topers. 

Some half-score soldiers, returned in triumph from the 
royal camp, sat round a table placed agreeably enough 
in the deep recess made by the large jutting lattice ; with 
them were mingled about as many women, strangely and 
gaudily clad. These last were .all young ; one or two, 
indeed, little advanced from childhood. But there was 
no expression of youth in their hard, sinister features : 
coarse paint supplied the place of bloom ; the very 
youngest had a wrinkle on her brow ; their forms wanted 
the round and supple grace of early years. Living prin- 
cipally in the open air, trained from infancy to feats of 
activity, their muscles were sharp and prominent — their 
asj>ects had something of masculine audacity and rude- 
ucss ; health itself seemed in them more loathsome than 


184 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


disease. Upon those faces of bronze, vice had set its 
ineffable, un mistaken seal. To those eyes never had 
sprung the tears of compassion or woman’s gentle sor- 
row ; on those brows never had flushed the glow of 
modest shame ; their very voices half belied their sex — 
harsh, and deep, and hoarse — their laughter loud and 
dissonant. Some amongst them were not destitute of a 
certain beanty, but it was a beauty of feature with a 
common hideousness of expression — an expression at once 
cunning, bold, callous, and licentious. Womanless, through 
the worst vices of woman — passionless, through the pre- 
mature waste of passion — they stood between the sexes 
like foul and monstrous anomalies, made up and fashioned 
from the rank depravities of both. These creatures seemed 
to have newly arrived from some long wayfaring — their 
shoes and the hems of their robes were covered with dust 
and mire — their faces were heated, and the veins in their 
bare, sinewy, sun-burned arms were swollen by fatigue. 
Each had beside her, on the floor a timbrel — each wore 
at her girdle a long knife in its sheath : well that the 
sheathes hid the blades, for not one — not even that which 
yon cold-eyed child of fifteen wore— but had on its steel 
the dark stain of human blood ! .» 

The presence of soldiers fresh from ‘the scene of action 
had naturally brought into the hostelry several of the 
idle gossips of the suburb, and these stood round the 
table, drinking into their large ears the boasting narra- 
tives of the soldiers. At a small table, apart from the 
revellers, but evidently listening with attention to all the 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


l85 


news of the hour, sat a friar, gravely discussing a mighty 
tankard of hulfcap, and ever and anon, as he lifted his 
head for the purpose of drinking, glanced a wanton eye 
at one of the tymbesteres. 

‘‘ But an’ you had seen,” said a trooper, who was the 
mouthpiece of his comrades — “ an’ you had seen the 
raptrils run when King Edward himself led the charge I 
Marry, it was like a cat in a rabbit-burrow I Easy to 
see, I trow, that Earl Warwick was not amongst them I 
Eis men, at least, fight like devils ! ” 

“ But there was one tall fellow,” said a soldier, setting 
down his tankard, “ who made a good fight and dour, and 
but for me and my comrades, would have cut his way to 
the king.” 

“ Ay — ay — true I we saved his highness, and ought to 
have been knighted — but there’s no gratitude now-a- 
days I ” 

“And who was this doughty warrior ?” asked one of 
the bystanders, who secretly favored the rebellion. 

“ Why, it was said that he was Robin of Redesdale. 
He who fought ray Lord Montagu off York.” 

“ Our Robin I ” exclaimed several voices, “Ay, he was 
ever a brave fellow — poor Robin I ” 

“ ‘ Y"our Robin,’ and ‘ poor Robin,’ varlets I ” cried the 
principal trooper. “ Have a care. ! What do ye mean 
by your Robin ? ” 

“ Marry, sir soldier,” quoth a butcher, scratching his 
head, and in a humble voice— craving your pardon, and 
the king’s, this Master Robin sojourned a short time in 
16* 


186 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

Miis hamlet, and was a kind neighbor, and mighty glib 
of tiie tongue. Don’t ye mind, neighbors,” he added, 
rapidly, eager to change the conversation, ‘‘ how he made 
us leave off when we were just about burning Adam War- 
ner, the old nigromancer, in his den yonder ? Who else 
could have done that? But an’ we had known Robin 
had been a rebel to sweet King Edward, we’d have roasted 
him along with the wizard ! ” 

One of the timbrel-girls, the leader of the choir, her 
arm round a soldier’s neck, looked up at the last speech, 
and her eye followed the gesture of the butcher, as he 
pointed through the open lattice to the sombre, ruinous 
abode of Adam Warner. 

“Was that the house ye would have burned?]’ she 
asked, abruptly. 

“Yes; but Robin told us the king would hang those 
who took on them the king’s blessed privilege of burning 
nigromancers ; and, sure enough, old Adam Warner was 
advanced to be wizard-in-chief to the king’s own high- 
ness a week or two afterwards.” 

The friar had made a slight movement at the name of 
Warner; he now pushed his stool nearer to the principal 
group, and drew his hood completely over his counte- 
nance. 

“ Yea !” exclaimed the mechanic, whose son had been 
the innocent cause of the memorable siege to poor Adam’s 
dilapidated fortress, related in the first book of this 
narrative — “yea; and what did he when there? Did 
he not devise a horrible engine for the destruction of the 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


187 


poor — an engine that was to do all the work in England 
by the deviPs help? — so that if a gentleman wanted a 
coat of mail, or a cloth tunic — if his dame needed a 
Norwich worsted — if a yeoman lacked a plough or a 
wagon, or his good wife a pot or a kettle, they were to 
go, not to the armorer, and the draper, and the tailor, 
and the weaver, and the wheelwright, and the blacksmith 
— but, hey presto ! Master Warner sets his imps a churn- 
ing, and turned ye out mail and tunic, worsted and wagon, 
kettle and pot, spick and span new, from his brewage of 
vapor and sea-coal ? Oh, have I not heard enough of the 
sorcerer from my brother, who works in the Chepe for 
Master Stockton, the mercer I — and Master Stockton 
was one of the worshipful deputies to whom the old 
nigromancer had the front to boast his devices.” 

“ It is true,” said the friar, suddenly. 

“Yes, reverend father, it is true,” said the mechanic, 
doffing his cap, and inclining his swarthy face to this un- 
expected witness of his veracity. A murmur of wrath 
and hatred was heard amongst the by-standers. The 
soldiers indifferently turned to their female companions. 
There was a brief silence ; and, involuntarily, the gossips 
stretched over the table to catch sight of the house of so 
demoniac an oppressor of the poor. 

‘ See,” said the baker, “ the smoke still curls from the 
roof-top I I heard he had come back. Old Madge, his 
handmaid, has bought cimnel-cakes of me the last week 
or so ; nothing less than the finest wheat serves him now, 
I trow. However, right’s right, and ” 


188 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

“ Come back I ” cried the fierce mechanic, “ the owl 
oath kept close in his roost ! An’ it were not for the 
king’s favor, I would soon see how the wizard liked to 
have lire and water brought to bear against himself ! ” 

“ Sit down, sweetheart,” whispered one of the young 
tymbesteres to the last speaker — 

“Come, kiss me, my darling, 

Warm kisses I trade for ” 

“Avaunt I” quoth the mechahic, gruffly, and shaking 
off the seductive arm of the tymbestere — “avaunt I I 
have neither liefe nor half-pence for thee and thine. Out 
on thee — a child of thy years, a rope’s end to thy back 
were a friend’s best kindness 1 ” 

The girl’s eyes sparkled, she instinctively put her hand 
to her knife ; then turning to a soldier by her side, she 
said — “ Hear you that, and sit still ? ” 

“Thunder and wounds!” growled the soldier thus 
appealed to — “more respect to the sex, knave; if I 
don’t break thy fool’s costard with my sword-hilt, it is 
only because Red Girisell can take care of herself against 
twenty such lozels as thou. These honest girls have been 
to the wars with us : Ring Edward grudges no man his 
jolly fere. Speak up for thyself, Grisell I How many 
tall fellows didst thou put out of their pain, after the 
battle of Losecote ? ” 

“Only five, Hal,” replied the cold-eyed girl, and show- 
ing her glittering teeth with the grin of a young tigress ; 
— “ but one was a captain. I shall do better next time ; 
it was my first battle, thou knowest!” 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 18^ 

The more timid of the by-standers exchanged a glance 
of horror, and drew back. The mechanic resumed, sul- 
lenly — 

“ I seek no quarrel with lass or lover. I am a plain, 
blunt man, with a wife and children, who are dear to me ; 
and if I have a grudge to the nigromancer, it is because 
he glamoured my poor boy Tim. “ See ! ’’ — and he caught 
up a blue-eyed, handsome boy, who had been clinging to 
his side, and baring the child’s arm, showed it to the 
spectators ; there was a large scar on the limb, and it 
was shrunk and withered. 

“It was my own fault,” said the little fellow, depre- 
catingly. 

The affectionate father silenced the sufferer with a 
cuff on the cheek, and resumed — “Ye note, neighbors, 
the day when the foul wizard took this little one in his 
arms: well, three weeks afterwards — that very day three 
Yveeks — as he was standing like a lamb by the fire, the 
good wife’s caldron seethed over, without reason or 
rhyme, and scalded his arm till it rivalled up like a leaf 
in November; and if that is not glamour; why have we 
laws against witchcraft?” 

“True — true 1 ” groaned the chorus. 

The boy, who had borne his father’s blow without a 
murmur, now again attempted remonstrance. “ The hot 
water went over the grey cat, too, but Master Warner 
never bewitched her, daddy.” 

“He takes his part! — You hear the daff laddy? He 
takes the old nigromancer’s part — a sure sign of the 

2(j 


190 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

witchcraft ; but I’ll leather it out of thee, I will I ” and 
the mechanic again raised his weighty arm. The child 
did not this time await the blow ; he dodged under the 
butcher’s apron, gained the door, and disappeared. “And 
he teaches our own children to fly in our faces 1 ” said the 
father, in a kind of whimper. 

The neighbors sighed, in commiseration. 

“ Oh I ” he exclaimed, in a fiercer tone, grinding his 
teeth, and shaking his clenched fist towards Adam 
Warner’s melancholy house — “I say again, if the king 
did not protect the vile sorcerer, I would free the land 
from his develries, ere his black master could come to his 
help. ” 

“ The king cares not a straw for Master Warner or his 
inventions, my son,” said a rough, loud voice. All turned, 
and saw the friar standing in the midst of the circle. 
“ Know ye not, my children, that the king sent the wretch 
neck and crop out of the palace, for having bewitched 
the Earl of Warwick and his grace the Lord Clarence, 
so that they turned unnaturally against their own kins- 
man, his highness. But ‘ Manus malorum suos bonos 
breaket ’ — that is to say, — the fists of wicked men only 
whack their own bones. Ye have all heard tell of Friai 
Bungey, my children ? ” 

“ Ay — ay I ” answered two or three in a breath — “a 
wizard, it’s ttue, and a mighty one ; but he never did 
harm to the poor, though they do say he made a quaint 
image of the earl, and ” 

“Tut-tut!” interrupted the friar, “all Bungey did 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 191 

was to try to disenchant the Lord Warwick, whom yon 
miscreant had spell-bound. Poor Bungey I he is a friend 
to the people : and when he found that Master Adam 
was making a device for their ruin, he spared no toil, I 
assure ye, to frustrate the iniquity. Oh, how he fasted 
and watched ! Oh, how many a time he fought, tooth 
and nail, with the devil in person, to get at the infernal 
invention 1 for if he had that invention once in his hands, 
he could turn it to good account, I can promise ye ; and 
give ye rain for the green blade, and sun for the ripe 
sheaf. But the fiend got the better at first ; and King 
Edward, bewitched himself for the moment, would have 
hanged Friar Bungey for crossing old Adam, if he had 
not called three times in a loud voice — ‘ Presto pepranxe- 
non ! ’ changed himself into a bird, and flown out of the 
window. As soon as Master Adam Warner found the 
field clear to himself, he employed his daughter to bewitch 
the Lord Hastings ; he set brother against brother, and 
made the king and Lord George fall to loggerheads ; he 
stirred up the rebellion, and where he would have stopped 
the foul fiend only knows, if your friend Friar Bungey, 
who, though a wizard as you say, is only so for your 
benefit (and a holy priest into the bargain), had not, by 
aid of a good spirit, whom he conjured up in the Island 
of Tartary, disenchanted the king, and made him see in 
a dream what the villanous Warner was devising against 
his crown and his people, — \yhereon his highness sent 
Master Warner and his daughter back to their roost, 
and, liel{)ed by Friar Bungey, beat Ids enemies out of the 


192 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


kingdom. So, if ye have a mind to save your children 
from mischief and malice, ye may set to work with good 
heart, always provided that ye touch not old Adam’s iron 
invention. Woe betide ye, if ye think to destroy that! 
Bring it safe to Friar Bungey, whom ye will find returned 
to the palace, and journeymen’s wages will be a penny a 
day higher for the next ten years to come ! ” With these 
words the friar threw down his reckoning, and moved 
majestically to the door. 

“An’ I might trust you?” said Tim’s father, laying 
hold of the friar’s serge. 

“Ye may — ye may I ” cried the leader of the tymbes- 
teres, starting up from the lap of her soldier, “ for it is 
Friar Bungey himself!” 

A movement of astonishment and terror was universal. 

“ Friar Bungey himself 1 ” repeated the burly impostor. 
“ Right, lassie, right ; and he now goes to the palace of 
the Tower, to mutter good spells in King Edward’s ear 
— spells to defeat the malignant ones, and to lower the 
price of beer. Wax wobiscum!” 

With that salutation, more benevolent than accurate, 
the friar vanished from the room ; the chief of the tym- 
besteres leaped lightly on the table, put one foot on the 
soldier’s shoulder, and sprang through the open lattice. 
She found the friar in the act of mounting a sturdy mule, 
which had been tied to a post by the door. 

“Fie, Graul Skellet 1 Fie, Graul !” said the conjuror. 
“ Respect for my serge. We must not be noted t-ogethei 
out of door in the day-light. ^Iiere’s a groat for thee. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


193 


Vade, execrabilis, — that is, Good day to thee, pretty 
rogue I ” 

“A word, friar, a word. Wouldst thou have the old 
man burned, drowned, or torn piecemeal I He hath a 
daughter, too, who once sought to mar our trade with 
her gittern ; a daughter, then in a kirtle that I would not 
have nimmed from a hedge, but whom I last saw in sarce- 
net and lawn, with a great lord for her fere.” The tyra- 
bestere’s eyes shone with malignant envy, as she added 
— “ Graul Skellet loves not to see those who have worn 
worsted and say, walk in sarcenet and lawn I Graul 
Skellet loves not' wenches who have lords for their feres, 
and yet who shrink from Graul and her sisters as the 
sound from the leper.” 

^‘Fegs,” answered the friar, impatiently, “I know 
nought against the daughter — a pretty lass, but too high 
for my kisses. And as for the father, I want not the 
man’s life — that is, not very specially — but his model, his 
mechanical. He may go free, if that can be compassed ; 
if not, — why, the model at all risks I Serve me in this.” 

“And thou wilt teach me the last tricks of the cards, 
and thy great art of making phantoms glide by on the 
wall ? ” 

“Bring the model intact, and I will teach thee more, 
(jraul ; — the dead man’s candle, and the charm of the 
— and I’ll give thee, to boot, the caul of the parri- 
cide, that thou hast prayed me so oft for. Hum ! — thou 
hast a girl in thy troop who hath a blinking eye that well 
II. — 17 


N 


194 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

pleases me ; — but go now, and obey me. Work before 
play — and grace before pudding!” 

The tymbestere nodded, snapped her fingers in the air, 
and humming no holy ditty, returned to the house through 
the doorway. 

This short conference betrays to the reader the rela- 
tions, mutually advantageous, which subsisted between 
the conjuror and the tymbesteres. Their troop (the 
mothers, perchance, of the generation we treat of) had 
been familiar to the friar in his old capacity of mounte- 
bank or tregetour, and in his clerical and courtly eleva- 
tion, he did not disdain an ancient connection that served 
him well with the populace ; for these grim children of 
vice seemed present in every place, where pastime was 
gay, or strife was rampant ; in peace, at the merry- 
makings and the hostelries — in war, following the camp, 
and seen, at night, prowling through the battle-fields to 
despatch the wounded and to rifle the slain : — In merry- 
making, hostelry, or in camp, they could thus still spread 
the fame of Friar Bungey, and uphold his repute both 
for terrible lore and for hearty love of the commons. 

Nor was this all ; both tymbesteres and conjuror were 
fortune-tellers by profession. They could interchange 
the anecdotes each picked up in their different lines. 
The tymbestere could thus learn the secrets of gentle 
and courtier — the conjuror those of the artisan and me- 
chanic. 

Unconscious of the formidable dispositions of their 
neighbors, Sibyll and Warner were inhaling the sweet 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


195 


air of the early spring in their little garden. His dis- 
grace had affected the philosopher less than might be 
supposed. True, that the loss of the king’s favor was 
the deferring indefinitely — perhaps for life — any practical 
application of his adored theory ; and yet, somehow or 
other, the theory itself consoled him. At the worst, he 
should find some disciple, some ingenious student, more 
fortunate than himself, to whom he could bequeath the 
secret, and who, when Adam was in his grave, would 
teach the world to revere his name. Meanwhile, his 
time was his own ; he was lord of a home, though ruined 
and desolate ; he was free, with his free thoughts ; and 
therefore, as he paced the narrow garden, his step was 
lighter, his mind less absent, than when parched with 
feverish fear and hope, for the immediate practical suc- 
cess of a principle which was to be tried before the 
hazardous tribunal of prejudice and ignorance. 

“ My child,’^ said the sage, “ I feel, for the first time 
for years, the distinction of the seasons. I feel that we 
are walking in the pleasant spring. Young days come 
back to me like dreams ; and I could almost think thy 
mother were once more by my side ! ” 

Sibyll pressed her father’s hand, and a soft but melan- 
choly sigh stirred her rosy lips. She, too, felt the balm 
of the young year ; yet her father’s words broke upon sad 
and anxious musings. Not to youth as to age, not to 
loving fancy as to baffled wisdom, has seclusion charms 
that compensate for the passionate and active world I 
On coming back to the old house, on glancing round its 


198 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


day was declining ; Adam mounted to his studious cham- 
ber. Sibyll sought the solitary servant. 

“ What tidings, oh, what tidings ! The war, you say, 
is over ; the great earl, his sweet daughter, safe upon the 
seas, but Hastings, oh, Hastings I what of him?” 

“ My bonnibell, my lady-bird, I have none but good 
tales to tell thee. I saw and spoke with a soldier who 
served under Lord Hastings himself; he is unscathed, he 
is in London. But they say that one of his bands is 
quartered in the suburb, and that there is a report of a 
rising in Hertfordshire.” 

“When will peace come to England and to me!” 
sighed Sibyll. 


CHAPTER lY. 

This World’s Justice, and the Wisdom of our Ancestors. 

The night had now commenced, and Sibyll was still 
listening — or, perhaps, listening not — to the soothing 
babble of the venerable servant. They were both seated 
in the little room that adjoined the hall, and their only 

light came through the door opening on the garden a 

grey, indistinct twilight, relieved by the few earliest stars. 
The peacock, his head under his wing, roosted on the 
balustrade, and the song of the nightingale, from amidst 
one of the neighboring copses, which studded the ground 
towards the chase of Marybone, came soft and distant on 
the serene air. Tlie balm and freshness of spring were 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 199 

felt in the dews, in the skies, in the sweet breath of young 
herb and leaf ; — through tlie calm of ever-watchful nature, 
it seemed as if you might mark, distinct and visible, 
minute after minute, the blessed growth of April into 
May. 

Suddenly, Madge uttered a cry of alarm, and pointed 
towards the i* opposite wall. Sibyll, startled from her 
reverie, looked up, and saw something dusk and dw'arf- 
like perched upon the crumbling eminence. Presently 
this apparition leaped lightly into the garden, and the 
alarm of the women was lessened on seeing a young boy 
creep stealthily over tlie grass, and approach the open 
door. . , 

“ Hey, child I ” said Madge, rising. “ What wantest 
thou ? ” 

“ Hist, gammer, hist ! Ah I the young mistress ? 
That’s well. Hist ! I say again.” The boy entered the 
room.- “ I’m in time to save you. In half an hour your 
house will be broken into, perhdps burnt. The boys are 
clapping their hands now at the thoughts of the bonfire. 
Father and all the neighbors are getting ready. Hark ! 
hark ! No, it is only the wind ! The tymbesteres are 
to give note. When you hear their bells tinkle, the mob 
will meet. Run for your lives, you and the old man, and 
don’t ever say it was poor Tim who told you this, for 
father would beat me to death. Ye can still get through 
the garden into the fields. Quick ! ” 

“ I will go to the master,” exclaimed Madge, hurrying 
from the room. 


200 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


The child caught Sibyll’s cold hand through the dark. 
“And I say, mistrevss, if his worship is a wizard, don’t 
let him punish father and mother, or poor Tim, or his 
little sister ; though Tim was once naughty, and hooted 
Master Warner. Many, many, many a time and oft have 
I seen that kind, mild face in my sleep, just as when it 
bent over me ^ while I kicked and screamed r— and the 
poor gentleman said, ‘ Thinkest thou I would harm thee V 
But he’ll forgive me now, will he not ? And when I 
turned the seething water over myself, and they said it 
was all along of the wizard, ray heart pained more than 
the arm. But they whip me, and groan out that the 
devil is in me, if I don’t say that the kettle upset of 
itself ! Oh, those tymbesteres ! Mistress, did you ever 
see them ? They fright me. If you could hear hov' they 
set on all the neighbors 1 And their laugh — it makes 
the hair stand on end ! But you will get away, and thank 
Tim too ! Oh, I shall laugh then, when they find the 
old house empty ! ” * 

“May our dear Lord bless thee — bless thee, child,” 
sobbed Sibyll, clasping the boy in her arms, and kissing 
him, while her tears bathed his cheeks. 

A light gleamed on the threshold — Madge, holding a 
candle, appeared with Warner, his hat and cloak thrown 
on in haste. “What is this?” said the poor scholar. 
“ Can it be true ? Is mankind so cruel ? What have I 
done, woe is me I what have I done to deserve this ? ” 

“ Gome, dear father, quick,” said Sibyll, drying her 
tears, and wakened by the presence of the old man, 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 201 

into energy and courage. “ But put thy hand on this 
boy’s head, and bless him ; for it is he who has, haply, 
saved us.” 

The boy trembled a moment as the long-bearded face 
turned towards him, but when he caught and recognized 
those meek, sweet eyes, his superstition vanished, and it 
was but a holy and grateful awe that thrilled his young 
blood, as the old man placed both withered hands over 
his yellow hair, and murmured — 

“God shield thy youth — .God make thy manhood 
worthy — God give thee children in thine old age with 
hearts like thine ! ” 

Scarcely had the prayer ceased when the clash of tim- 
brels, with their jingling bells, was heard in the street. 
Once, twice, again, and a fierce yell closed in chorus — 
caught up and echoed from corner to corner, from house 
to house. 

“ Run — run I ” cried the boy, turning white with terror 

“But the Eureka — my hope — my mind’s child I” ex- 
claimed Adam, suddenly, and halting at the door. 

“Eh — eh ! ” said Madge, pushing him forward. “ It 
is too heavy to move ; thou couldst not lift it. Think 
of thine own flesh and blood — of thy daughter — of her 
dead mother. Save her life, if thou carest not for thine 
own ! ” 

“ Go, Sibyll, go — and thou, Madge — I will stay. 
What matters my life ? it is but the servant of a thought ! 
Perish master — perish slave ! ” 

“ Father, unless you come with me, I stir not. Fly 


202 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


or perish. Your fate is mine I Another minute I Oh, 
heaven of mercy, that roar again I We are both lost!’’ 

“ Go, sir, go ; they care not for your iron — iron can- 
not feel. They will not touch that! Have not your 
daughter’s life upon your soul I ” 

“ Sibyll — Sibyll, forgive me I Come 1 ” said Warner, 
conscience-stricken at the appeal. 

Madge and the boy ran forwards — the old woman un- 
barred the garden-gate — Sibyll and her father went forth 
— the fields stretched before them calm and solitary — 
the boy leaped up, kissed Sibyll’s pale cheek, and then 
bounded across the grass, and vanished. 

“ Loiter not, Madge. Come ! ” cried Sibyll. 

“Nay,” said the old woman, shrinking back; “they 
bear no grudge to me ; I am too old to do aught but 
burthen ye. I will stay, and perchance save the house 
and the chattels, and poor master’s deft contrivance. 
Whist ! thou knowest his heart would break if none were 
by to guar-d it.” 

With that the faithful servant thrust the broad pieces 
that yet remained of the king’s gift into the gipsire Sibyll 
wore at her girdle, and then closed and rebarred the door 
before they could detain her. 

“ It is base to leave her,” said the scholar-gentleman. 

The noble Sibyll could not refute her father. Afar 
they heard the trampling of feet : suddenly, a dark red 
light shot lip into the blue air, a light from the flame of 
many torches. 

“ The wizard — the wizard ! Death to the wizard, whc 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 203 

would starve the poor I ” yelled forth, and was echoed by 
a stern hurrah. 

Adam stood motionless, Sibyll by his side. 

The wizard and his daughter ! ” shrieked a sharp 
single voice, the voice of Graul the tymbestere. 

Adam turned. “Fly, my child — they now threaten 
thee. Come — come — come;” and taking her by the 
hand, he hurried her across the fields, skirting the hedge, 
their shadows dodging, irregular, and quaint, on the 
star-lit sward. The father had lost all thought — all care 
but for the daughter’s life. They paused at last, out of 
breath and exhausted : the sounds at the distance were 
lulled and hushed. They looked towards the direction 
of the home they had abandoned, expecting to see the 
flames destined to consume it reddening the sky ; but all 
was dark — or, rather, no light save the holy stars and the 
^ rising moon offended the majestic heaven. 

4; : They cannot harm the poor old woman ; she hath no 
lore. On her grey hairs has fallen not the curse of men’s 
hate!” said Warner. 

“ Right, father ; when they found us flown, doubtless 
the cruel ones dispersed. But they may search yet for 
thee. Lean on me, I am strong and young. Another 
effort, and we gain the safe coverts of the Chase.” 

While yet the last word hung on her lips, they saw, on 
the path they had left, the burst of torch-light, and heard 
the mob hounding on their track. But the thick copses, 
with their pale green just budding into life, were at hand. 
On T.hev fled : the deer started from amidst the entangled 


204 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

fern, but stood and gazed at them without fear ; the 
playful hares in the green alleys ceased not their nightly 
sports at the harmless footsteps ; and when at last, in the 
dense thicket, they sank down on the mossy roots of a 
giant oak, the nightingales over- head chanted as if in 
melancholy welcome. They were saved ! 

But in their home, fierce fires glared amidst the tossing 
torch-light; the crowd, baffled by the strength of the 
door, scaled the wall, broke through the lattice-work of 
the hall window, and streaming through room after room, 
roared forth — “ Death to the wizard !” Amidst the sordid 
dresses of the men, the soiled and faded tinsel of the 
tymbesteres gleamed and sparkled. It was a scene the 
she fiends revelled in — dear are outrage and malice, and 
the excitement of turbulent passions, and the savage 
voices of frantic men, and the thirst of blood to those 
everlasting furies of a mob — under whatever name we 
know them, in whatever time they taint with their pre- 
sence — women in whom womanhood is blasted I 

Door after door was burst open with cries of disap- 
pointed rage; at last, they ascended the turret-stairs — 
they found a small door barred and locked. Tim’s father, 
a huge axe in his brawny arm, shivered the panels ; the 
crowd rushed in — and there, seated amongst a strange 
and motley litter, they found the devoted Madge. The 
poor old woman had collected into this place, as the 
strong-hold of the mansion, whatever portable articles 
seemed to her most precious, either from vjilue or associa- 
tion. Sibyll’s gittern (Marmaduke’s gift) lay amidst a 


THE LAST OF THE BAEONS. 205 

lumber of tools and implements — a faded robe of her 
dead mother’s, treasured by Madge and Sibyll both, as a 
relic of holy love — a few platters and cups of pewter, the 
pride of old Madge’s heart to keep bright and clean, odds 
and ends of old hangings, a battered silver brooch (a love- 
gift to Madge herself when she was young) — these, and 
suchlike scraps of finery, hoards inestimable to the house- 
hold memory and affection, lay confusedly heaped around 
the huge grim model, before which, mute and tranquil, 
sat the brave old woman. 

The crowd halted, and stared round in superstitious 
terror and dumb marvel. 

The leader of the tymbesteres sprang forward — 

“Where is thy master, old hag, and where the bonny 
maid who glamours lords, and despises us bold lasses ? ” 

“Alack I master and the damsel have gone hours ago I 
I am alone in the house ; what’s your will ?” 

“ The crone looks parlous witch-like I ” said Tim’s 
father, crossing himself, and somewhat retreating from 
her grey, unquiet eyes. And, indeed, poor Madge, with 
her wrinkled face, bony form, and high cap, corresponded 
far more with the vulgar notions of a dabbler in the black 
art than did Adam Warner, with his comely countenance 
and noble mien. 

“ So she doth, indeed, and verily,” said a hump-backed 
tinker, “ if we were to try a dip in the horse-pool yonder, 
ii could do no harm.” 

“ Away with her, away ! ” cried several voices at that 
humane suggestion. 

II. — 1 


206 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


“Nay, nay,” quoth the baker, “she is a douce crea- 
ture, after all, and hath dealt with me many years. I 
don’t care what becomes of the wizard — every one knows 
[he added with pride] that I was one of the first to set 
fire to his house when Robin gainsayed it ! — but right’s 
right — burn the master, not the drudge I ” 

This intercession might have prevailed, but unhappily, 
at that moment Graul Skellet, who had secured two stout 
fellows to accomplish the object so desired by Friar 
Bungey, laid hands on the model, and, at her shrill com- 
mand, the men advanced and dislodged it from its place. 
At the same time, the other tymbesteres, caught by the 
sight of things pleasing to their wonted tastes, threw 
themselves, one upon the faded robe Sibyll’s mother had 
worn in her chaste and happy 3"outh ; another, upon poor 
Madge’s silver brooch ; a third, upon the gittern. 

These various attacks roused up all the spirit and wrath 
of the old woman ; her cries of distress, as she darted 
from one to the other, striking to the right and left with 
her feeble arms, her form trembling with passion, were at 
once ludicrous and piteous, and these were responded to 
by the the shrill exclamations of the fierce tymbesteres, 
as they retorted scratch for scratch, and blow for blow. 
The spectators grew animated by the sight of actual out- 
rage and resistance ; the hump-backed tinker, whose un- 
wholesome fancy one of the aggrieved tymbesteres had 
mightily warmed, hastened to the relief of his virago ; 
and rendered furious by finding ten nails fastened sud- 
denly on his face, he struck down the poor creature by a 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


20 '! 


blow that stunned her, seized her in his arms — for de- 
formed and weakly as the tinker was, the old woman, now 
sense and spirit were gone, was as light as skin and bone 
could be — and followed by half a score of his comrades, 
whooping and laughing, bore her down the stairs. Tim’s 
father, who, whether from parental affection, or, as is more 
probable, from the jealous hatred and prejudice of igno- 
rant industry, was bent upon Adam’s destruction, hallooed 
on some of his fiercer fellows into the garden, tracked the 
footsteps of the fugitives by the trampled grass, and 
bounded over the wall in fruitless chase. But on went 
the more giddy of the mob, rather in sport than in cruelty, 
with a chorus of drunken apprentices and riotous boys, 
to the spot where the hump-backed tinker had dragged 
his passive burthen. The foul green pond near Master - 
Sancroft’s hostel reflected the glare of torches ; six of the 
tymbesteres ‘leaping and wheeling, with doggerel song 
and discordant music, gave the signal for the ordeal of 
the witch — 

“Lake or river, dyke or ditch. 

Water never drowns the witch. 

Witch or wizard would ye know ? — 

Sink or swim, is ay or no. 

Lift her, swing her, once and twice. 

Lift her, swing her o’er the brim, — 

Lille — lera — twice and thrice — 

Ha! ha! mother, sink or swim!” 

And while the last line was chanted, amidst the full jollity 
of laughter and clamor, and clattering timbrels, there was 
a splash in the sullen water; the green slough on the 


208 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

surface parted with an oozing gurgle, and then came a 
dead silence. 

“A murrain on the hag I — she does not even struggle ! ” • 
said, at last, the hump-backed tinker. 

No, no ! she cares not for water— try fire I Out wdth 
her I out ! cried Red Grisell. 

“Aroint, her I she is sullen 1,’^ said the tinker, as his lean 
fingers clutched up the dead body, and let it fall upon the 
margin. 

“ Dead I said the baker, shuddering ; “ we have done 
wrong — I told ye so I She dealt with me many a year. 
Poor Madge ! — Right\s right. She was no witch ! 

“ But that was the only way to try it,’^ said the hump- 
backed tinker ; and if she was not a witch, why did she 
look like one? — I cannot abide ugly folks ! ’^ 

The bystanders shook their heads. But whatever their 
remorse, it was diverted by a double sound : first, a loud 
hurrah from some of the mob who had loitered for pillage, 
and who now emerged from Adam’s house, following two 
men, who, preceded by the terrible Graul, dancing before 
them, and tossing aloft her timbrel, bore in triumph the 
captured Eureka ; and, secondly, the blast of a clarion at 
the distance, while up the street marched — horse and foot, 
with pike and banner — a goodly troop. The Lord Hast- 
ings in person led a royal force, by a night march, against 
a fresh outbreak of the rebels, not ten miles from the city, 
under Sir Geolfrey Gates, who had been lately arrested 
by the Lord Howard at Southampton — escaped — col- 
lected a disorderly body of such restless men as are always 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS 


m 


disposed to take part in civil commotion, and now menaced 
London itself. At the sound of the clarion the valiant 
mob dispersed in all directions, for even at that day mobs 
had an instinct of terror at the approach of the military, 
and a quick reaction from outrage to the fear of reta- 
liation. 

But, at the sound of martial music, the tymbesteres 
silenced their own instruments, and instead of flying, they 
darted through the crowd, each to seek the other, and 
unite as for counseh Graul, pointing to Mr. Sancroft’s 
hostelry, whispered the bearers of the Eureka to seek 
refuge there for the present, and to bear their trophy 
with the dawn to Friar Bungey, at the Tower ; and then, 
gliding nimbly through the fugitive rioters, sprang into 
the centre of the circle formed by her companions. 

“ Ye scent the coming battle,” said the archtymbestere. 

“Ay — ay — ay I ” answered the sisterhood. 

“ But we have gone miles since noon — I am faint and 
weary ! ” said one amongst them. 

Bed Grisell, the youngest of the band, struck her com- 
rade on the cheek— “ Faint and weary, ronion, with blood 
and booty in the wind ! ” 

The tymbesteres smiled grimly on their young sister ; 
but the leader whispered “ Hush ! ” and they stood for a 
second or two with outstretched throats — with dilated 
nostrils — with pent breath — ^listening to the clarion, and 
the hoofs, and the rattling armor; — the human vultures 
foretasting their feast of carnage ; then, obedient to a 
sign from their chieftainess, they crept lightly and rapidly 
18 * 0 


210 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

into the mouth of a neighboring alley, where they cowered 
by the squalid huts, concealed. The troop passed o.n — . 
a gallant and serried band — horse and foot, about fifteen 
hundred men. As they filed up the thoroughfare, and 
the tramp of the last soldiers fell hollow on the star-lit 
ground, the tymbesteres stole from their retreat, and, at 
the distance of some few hundred yards, followed the 
procession, with long, silent, stealthy strides, — as the 
meaner beasts, in the instinct of hungry cunning, follow 
the lion for the garbage of his prey. 


CHAPTER V. 

The Fugitives are captured — The Tymbesteres reappear — Moon- 
light on the Revel of the Living — Moonlight on the Slumber of 
the Dead. 

The father and child made their resting-place under 
the giant oak. They knew not whither to fly for refuge 
. — the day and the night had become the same to them — 
the night menaced with robbers, the day with the mob. 
If return to their home was forbidden, where in the wide 
world a shelter for the would-be world-improver? Yet 
they despaired not, their hearts failed them not. The 
majestic splendor of the night, as it deepened in its 
solemn calm — as the shadows of the windless trees fell 
larger and sharper upon the silvery earth — as the skies 
grew mellower and more luminous in the strengthening 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


211 


star-light, inspired them with the serenity of faith — for 
night, to the earnest soul, opens the bible of the universe, 
and on the leaves of Heaven is written — ‘‘ God is every- 
where ! ” 

Their hands were clasped, each in each — their pale 
faces were upturned ; they spoke not, neither were they 
conscious that they prayed, but their silence was thought, 
and the thought was worship. 

Amidst the grief and solitude of the pure, there comes, 
at times, a strange and rapt serenity — a sleep-awake — 
over which the instinct of life beyond the grave glides 
like a noiseless dream ; and ever that heaven that the 
soul yearns for is colored by the fancies of the fond 
human heart, — each fashioning the above from the desires 
unsatisfied below. 

“There,” thought the musing maiden, “cruelty and 
strife shall cease — there, vanish the harsh differences of 
life — there, those whom we have loved and lost are 
found, and through the Son, who tasted of mortal sor- 
row, we are raised to the home of the Eternal Father ! ” 

“And there,” thought the aspiring sage, “the mind, 
dungeoned and chained below, rushes free into the realms 
of space — there, from every mystery falls the veil — there, 
the Omniscient smiles on those who, through the dark- 
ness of life, have fed that lamp, the soul, — there, thought, 
but the seed on earth, bursts into the flower, and ripens 
to the fruit ! ” 

And on the several hopes of both maid and sage the 
eyes of the angel stars smiled with a common promise. 


212 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

At last, insensibly, and while still musing, so that slum- 
ber but continued the reverie into visions, father and 
daughter slept. 

The night passed away ; the dawn came slow and 
grey ; the antlers of the deer stirred above the fern ; the 
song of the nightingale was hushed ; and just as the 
morning star waned back, while the reddening east 
announced the sun, and labor and trouble resumed their 
realm of day, a fierce band halted before those sleeping 
forms. 

These men had been Lancastrian soldiers, and, reduced 
to plunder for a living, had, under Sir Geoffrey Gates, 
formed the most stalwart part of the wild disorderly force 
whom Hilyard and Corners had led to Olney. They had 
heard of the new outbreak, headed by their ancient cap- 
tain, Sir Geoffrey (who was supposed to have been insti- 
gated to his revolt by the gold and promises of the Lan- 
castrian chiefs), and were on their way to join the rebels ; 
but as war for them was but the name for booty, they felt 
the wonted instinct of the robber, when they caught sight 
of the old man and the fair maid. 

Both Adam and his daughter wore, unhappily, the 
dresses in which they had left the court, and SibylPs 
especially was that which seemed to betoken a certain 
rank and station. 

“Awake — rouse yel’’ said the captain of the band, 
roughly shaking the arm which encircled Sibyll’s slender 
waist. Adam started, opened his eyes, and saw himself 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS 213 

begirt by figures in rusty armor, with savage faces peering 
under their steel sallets. 

How came ye hither? Yon oak drops strange 
acorns,” quoth the chief. 

“ Yaliant sir ! ” replied Adam, still seated, and drawing 
his gown instinctively over Sibyllas face, which nestled 
on his bosom, in slumber so deep and heavy, that the 
gruff voice had not broken it. “Yaliant sir I we are 
forlorn and houseless — an old man and a simple girl. 
Some evil-minded persons invaded our home — we fled in 
the night — and ” 

“Invaded your house ! ha, it is clear,” said the chief. 
“We know the rest.” 

At this moment Sibyll woke, and starting to her feet 
in astonishment and terror at the sight on which her eyes 
opened, her extreme beauty made a sensible effect upon 
the bravoes. 

“ Do not be daunted, young demoiselle,” said the cap- 
tain, with an air almost respectful, — “it is necessary 
thou and Sir John should follow us, but we will treat 
you well, and consult later on the ransom ye will pay us. 
Jock, discharge the young sumpter mule ; put its load on 
the black one. We have no better equipment for thee, 
lady — but the first haquenee we find shall replace the 
mule, and meanwhile my knaves will heap their cloaks 
for a pillion.” 

“ But what mean you I — you mistake us I ” exclaimed 
Sibyll — “we are poor; we cannot ransom ourselves.” 

“ Poor I — tut I ” said the captain, pointing significantly 


1^14 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


to the costly robe of the maiden — ‘‘moreover, his wor- 
ship’s wealth is well known. Mount in haste — we are 
pressed.” 

And without heeding the expostulations of Sibyll and 
the poor scholar, the rebel put his troop into motion, 
and marched himself at their head, with his lieutenant. 

Sibyll found the subalterns sterner than their chief; 
for as Warner offered to resist, one of them lifted his 
gisarme, with a frightful oath, and Sibyll was the first to 
persuade her father to submit. She mildly, however, 
rejected the mule, and the two captives walked together 
in the midst of the troop. 

jPardieP' said the lieutenant, “I see little help to 
Sir Geoffrey in these recruits, captain ! ” 

“ Fool ! ” said the chief, disdainfully — “ if the rebellion 
fail, these prisoners may save our necks. Will Somers 
last night was to break into the house of Sir John Bour- 
chier, for arras and moneys, of which the knight hath a 
goodly store. Be sure. Sir John slinked off in the siege, 
and this is he and his daughter. Thou knowest he is one 
of the greatest knights, and the richest, whom the York- 
ists boast of ; — and we may name our own price for his 
ransom.” 

“ But where lodge them, while we go to the battle ? ” 

“Ned Porpustone hath a hostelry not far from the 
camp, and Ned is a good Lancastrian, and a man to be 
trusted.” 

“We have not searched the prisoners,” said the lieu- 
tenant ; — “they may have some gold in their pouches ” 


THE LAST OF TVIE BARONS 215 

“ Marry, when Will Somers storms a hive, little time 
does he leave to the bees to fly away with much honey ! 
Natheless, thou mayest search the old knight, but civilly, 
and with gentle excuses. ” 

“ 4.nd the damsel ? ” 

“ Nay I that were unmannerly, and the milder our con- 
duct, the larger the ransom — when we have great folks 
to deal with.” 

The lieutenant accordingly fell back to search Adam’s 
gipsire, which contained only a book and a file, and 
then rejoined his captain, without offering molestation to 
Sibyll. 

The mistake made by the bravo was at least so far not 
wholly unfortunate, that the notion of the high quality 
of the captives — for Sir John Bourchier was indeed a 
person of considerable station and importance (a notion 
favored by the noble appearance of the scholar, and the 
delicate and high-born air of Sibyll) — procured for them 
all the respect compatible with the circumstances. They 
had not gone far before they entered a village, through 
which the ruffians marched with the most perfect im- 
punity; for it was a strange feature in those civil wars, 
that the mass of the population, except in the northern 
districts, remained perfectly supine and neutral : and as 
the little band halted at a small inn to drink, the gossips 
of the village collected round them, with the same kind 
of indolent, careless curiosity, which is now evinced, in 
some hamlet, at the halt of a stage-coach. Here the 
captain learned, however, some intelligence important to 


216 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


his objects — viz., the night march of the troop under 
Lord Hastings, and the probability that the conflict was 
already begun. “ If so,^’ muttered the rebel, “ we can 
see how the tide turns, before we endanger ourselves ; 
and at the worst, our prisoners will bring something of 
prize-money.’^ 

While thus soliloquizing, he spied one of those cum- 
brous vehicles of the day called whirlicotes* standing 
in the yard of the hostelry ; and seizing upon it, vi et 
armis, in spite of all the cries and protestations Of the 
unhappy landlord, he ordered his captives to enter, and 
recommenced his march. As the band proceeded farther 
on their way, they were joined by fresh troops, of the 
same class as themselves, and they pushed on gaily, till, 
about the hour of eight, they halted before the hostelry 
the captain had spoken of. It stood a little out of the 
high road, not very far from the village of Hadley, and 
the heath or chase of Gladsmoor, on which was fought, 
some time afterwards, the Battle of Barnet. It was a 
house of good aspect, and considerable size, for it was 
much frequented by all caravanserais and travellers from 
the north to the metropolis. The landlord, at heart a 
stanch Lancastrian, who had served in the French wars, 
and contrived, no one knew how, to save moneys in the 

* Whirlicotes were in use from a very early period, but only 
among the great, till, in the reign of Richard II., his queen. Anne, 
introduced side-saddles, when the whiilicote fell out of fashion 
but might be found at different hostelries on the main roads, for 
the accommodation of the infirm or aged. 


THE LAST or THE BARONS. 21t 

course of an adventurous life, gave to his hostelry the 
appellation and sign of the Talbot, in memory of the old 
hero of that name ; and, hiring a tract of land, joined the 
occupation of a farmer to the dignity of a host. The 
house, which was built round a spacious quadrangls, 
represented the double character of its owner, one side 
being occupied by barns and a considerable range of 
stabling, while cows, oxen, and ragged colts, grouped 
amicably together, in a space railed off in the centre of 
the yard. At another side ran a large wooden staircase, 
with an open gallery, propped on wooden columns, con- 
ducting to numerous chambers, after the fashion of the 
Tabard, in Southwark, immortalized by Chaucer. Over 
the archway, on entrance, ran a labyrinth of sleeping- 
lofts, for foot passengers and muleteers, and the side 
facing the entrance was nearly occupied by a vast kitchen, 
the common hall, and the bar, with the private parlor of 
the host, and two or three chambers in the second story 
The whirlicote jolted and rattled into the yard. Sibyll 
and her father were assisted out of the vehicle, and, after 
a few words interchanged with the host, conducted by 
Master Porpustone himself up the spacious stairs into a 
chamber, well furnished and fresh littered, with repeated 
assurances of safety, provided they maintained silence, 
and attempted no escape. 

“Ye are in time,” said Ned Porpustone to the captain 
— “ Lord Hastings made proclamation at daybreak that 
he gave the rebels two hours to disperse.” 

II.- 19 


218 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


“Pest I I like not those proclamations. And the fel- 
lows stood their ground ? ’* 

“ No ; for Sir Geoffrey, like a wise soldier, mended the 
ground by retreating a mile to the left, and placing the 
wood between the Yorkists and himself. Hastings, by 
this, must have remarshalled his men. But to pass the 
wood is slow work, and Sir Geoflfrey^s cross-bows are no 
doubt doing damage in the covert. Come in, while your 
fellows snatch a morsel without; five minutes are not 
thrown away on filling their bellies.’^ 

“Thanks, Ned — thou art a good fellow 1 and if all 
else fail, why Sir John’s ransom shall pay the reckoning. 
Any news of bold Robin ? ” 

“Ay ! he has ’scaped with a whole skin, and gone back 
to the north,” answered the host, leading the way to his 
parlor, where a flask of strong wine and some cold meats 
awaited his guest. “If Sir Geoffrey Gates can beat off 
the York troopers, tell him, from me, not to venture to 
London, but to fall back into the marches. He will be 
welcome there I foreguess ; for every northman is either 
or Warwick or for Lancaster; and the two must unite 
now, I trow.” 

“But Warwick is flown!” quoth the captain. 

“ Tush 1 he has only flown, as the falcon flies when he 
has a heron to fight with — wheeling and soaring. Woe 
to the heron when the falcon swoops I But you drink 
not ! ” 

“ No ; I must keep the head cool to-day. For Hastings 
is a perilous captain. Thy fist, friend ! — If I fall, I leave 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 219 

you Sir John and his girl, to wipe off old scores ; if we 
beat off the Yorkists, I vow to our Lady of Walsingham 
an image of wax, of the weight of myself.’^ The ma- 
rauder then started up, and strode to his men, who were 
snatching a hasty meal on the space before the hostel. 
He paused a moment or so, while his host whispered — 

“ Hastings was here before daybreak ; but his men only 
got the sour beer; yours fight upon huff-cap.’’ 

“ Up, men I — To your pikes I Dress to the right ! ” 
thundered the captain, with a sufficient pause between 
each sentence. “ The York lozels have starved on stale 
beer — shall they beat huff-cap and Lancaster? Frisk 
and fresh — up with the Antelope* banner, and long live 
Henry the Sixth ! ” 

The sound of the shout that answered this harangue 
shook the thin walls of the chamber in which the prisoners 
were confined, and they heard with joy the departing 
Jramp of the soldiers. In a short time, Master Porpus- 
tone himself, a corpulent, burly fellow, with a face by no 
means unprepossessing, mounted to the chamber, accom- 
panied by a comely housekeeper, linked to him, as scandal 
said, by ties less irksome than Hymen’s, and both bearing 
ample provisions, with rich pigment and lucid clary,f 
which they spread with great formality on an oak table 
before their involuntary guests. 

“ Eat, your worship, eat I ” cried mine host, heartily. 

* The antelope was one of the Lancastrian badges. The special 
cognisance of Henry VI. was two feathers in saltire. 

■j- Clary was wine clarified. 


218 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


“Pest I I like not those proclamations. And the fel- 
lows stood their ground ? 

“ No ; for Sir Geoffrey, like a wise soldier, mended the 
ground by retreating a mile to the left, and placing the 
wood between the Yorkists and himself. Hastings, by 
this, must have remarshalled his men. But to pass the 
wood is slow work, and Sir Geoffrey^s cross-bows are no 
doubt doing damage in the covert. Come in, while your 
fellows snatch a morsel without; five minutes are not 
thrown away on filling their bellies.” 

“Thanks, Ned — thou art a good fellow ! and if all 
else fail, why Sir John’s ransom shall pay the reckoning. 
Any news of bold Robin ? ” 

“Ay ! he has ’scaped with a whole skin, and gone back 
to the north,” answered the host, leading the way to his 
parlor, where a flask of strong wine and some cold meats 
awaited his guest. “If Sir Geoffrey Gates can beat off 
the York troopers, tell him, from me, not to venture to 
London, but to fall back into the marches. He will be 
welcome there I foreguess ; for every northman is either 
or Warwick or for Lancaster; and the two must unite 
now, I trow.” 

“But Warwick is flown!” quoth the captain. 

“ Tush I he has only flown, as the falcon flies when he 
has a heron to fight with — wheeling and soaring. Woe 
to the heron when the falcon swoops ! But you drink 
not ! ” 

“ No ; I must keep the head cool to-day. For Hastings 
is a perilous captain. Thy fist, friend ! — If I fall, I leave 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 219 

you Sir John and his girl, to wipe off old scores; if we 
beat off the Yorkists, I vow to our Lady of Walsinghara 
an image of wax, of the weight of myself.” The ma- 
rauder then started up, and strode to his men, who were 
snatching a hasty meal on the space before the hostel. 
He paused a moment or so, while his host whispered — 

“ Hastings was here before daybreak ; but his men only 
got the sour beer; yours fight upon huff-cap.” 

“ Up, men ! — To your pikes ! Dress Jo the right 1 ” 
thundered the captain, with a sufficient pause between 
each sentence. “The York lozels have starved on stale 
beer — shall they beat huff-cap and Lancaster ? Frisk 
and fresh — up with the Antelope * banner, and long live 
Henry the Sixth ! ^ 

The sound of the shout that answered this harangue 
shook the thin walls of the chamber in which the prisoners 
were confined, and they heard with joy the departing 
.tramp of the soldiers. In a short time, Master Porpus- 
tone himself, a corpulent, burly fellow, with a face by no 
means unprepossessing, mounted to the chamber, accom- 
panied by a comely housekeeper, linked to him, as scandal 
said, by ties less irksome than Hymen’s, and both bearing 
ample provisions, with rich pigment and lucid clary, f 
which they spread with great formality on an oak table 
before their involuntary guests. 

“ Eat, your worship, eat 1 ” cried mine host, heartily. 

The antelope was one of the Lancastrian badges. The special 
cognisance of Henry VI. was two feathers in saltire, 
f Clary was wine clarified. 


220 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

Eat, lady-bird !— nothing like eating to kill and banish 
care. Fortune of war, Sir John-^fortune of war — never 
be daunted ! Up to day— down to-morrow. Come what 

may York or Lancaster— still a rich man always falls on 

his legs. Five hundred marks or so to the captain ; a 
noble or two, out of pure generosity, to Ned Porpustone 
(I scorn extortion), and you and the fair young dame 
may breakfast at home to-morrow, unless the captain or 
his favorite lieutenant is taken prisoner ; and then, you 
see, they will buy off their necks by letting you out of the 
bag. Eat, I say — eat!” 

“Yerily,” said Adam, seating himself solemnly, and 
preparing to obey, “ I confess I’m a hungered, and the 
pasty hath a savory odor ; but I pray thee to tell me why 
I am called Sir John ? — Adam is my baptismal name.” 

“ Ha ! ha ! good — very good, your honor — to be sure, 
and your father’s name before you. We are all sons of 
Adam, and every son, I trow, has a just right and a lawful 
to his father’s name.” 

With that, followed by the housekeeper, the honest 
landlord, chuckling heartily, rolled his goodly bulk from 
the chamber, which he carefully locked. 

“ Comprehendest thou yet, Sibyll ? ” 

“Yes, dear sir and father — they mistake us for fugi- 
tives of mark and importance ; and when they discover 
their error, no doubt we shall go free. Tiourage, dear 
father ! ” 

“Me seemeth,” quoth Adam, almost merrily, as the 
good man filled his cup from the wine flagon — “me 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS; 22J 

seemeth that, if the mistake could continue, it would be 
no weighty misfortune — ha ! ha ! ” he stopped abruptly 
in the unwonted laughter, put down the cup — his face 
fell. “Ah, heaven forgive me I — and the poor Eureka 
and faithful Madge 1 

“ Oh, father I fear not ; we are not without protection. 
Lord Hastings is returned to London — we will seek him ; 
he will make our cruel neighbors respect thee. And 
Madge — poor Madge will be so happy at our return, for 
they could not harm her ; — a woman — old and alone ; no 
— no, man is not fierce enough for that ! 

“ Let us pray ; but thou eatest not, child I ’’ 

“Anon, father — anon; I am sick and weary. But, 
nay — nay, I am better now — better. Smile again, father. 
I am hungered, too ; yes, indeed and in sooth, yes. — Ah, 
sweet St. Mary, give me life and strength, and hope and 
patience, for his dear sake I ” 

The stirring events which had within the last few weeks 
diversified the quiet life of the scholar had somewhat 
roused him from his wonted abstraction, and made the 
actual world a more sensible and living thing than it had 
hitherto seemed to his mind ; but now, his repast ended, 
the quiet of the place (for the inn was silent and almost 
deserted) with the fumes of the wine — a luxury he rarely 
tasted — operated soothingly upon his thought and fancy, 
and plunged him into those reveries, so dear alike to poet 
and mathematician. To the thinker, the most trifling 
external object often suggests ideas, which, like Homer’s 
chain, extend, link after link, from earth to heaven. The 
1 9 * 2w 


222 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

sunny motes, that in a glancing column came through 
the lattice, called Warner from the real day — the day of 
strife and blood, with thousands hard by driving each 
other to the Hades— and led his scheming fancy into the 
ideal and abstract day — the theory of life itself ; and the 
theory suggested mechanism, and mechanism called up 
the memory of his oracle — old Roger Bacon ; and that 
memory revived the great friar’s hints in the Opus Magus 
— hints which outlined the grand invention of the tele- 
scope ; and so, as over some dismal precipice a bird 
swings itself to and fro upon the airy bough, the school- 
man’s mind played with its quivering fancy, and folded 
its calm wings above the verge of terror. 

Occupied with her own dreams, Sibyll respected those 
of her father ; and so in silence, not altogether mournful, 
the morning and the noon passed, and the sun was sloping 
westward, when a confused sound below called Sibyll’s 
gaze to the lattice, which looked over the balustrade of 
the staircase, into the vast yard. She saw several armed 
men — their harness hewed and battered — quaffing ale or 
wine in haste, and heard one of them say to the land- 
lord — 

“ All is lost I Sir Geoffrey Gates still holds out, but 
it is butcher work. The troops of Lord Hastings gather 
round him as a net round the fish I ” 

SdstiuQS ! — that name I — he was at hand ! — he was 
near I— they would be saved I Sibyll’s heart beat loudly. 

“And the captain?” asked Porpustone. 

Alive, when I last saw him ; but we must be off. In 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 223 

another hour all will be hurry and skurry, flight and 
chase. 

At this moment, from one of the barns there emerged, 
one by one, the female vultures of the battle. The tym- 
besteres, who had tramped all night to the spot, had 
slept off their fatigue during the day, and appeared on 
the scene as the neighboring strife waxed low, and the 
dead and the dying began to cumber the gory ground. 
Graul Skellet, tossing up her timbrel, darted to the fugi- 
tives and grinned a ghastly grin when she heard the 
news — for the tyrnbesteres were all loyal to a king who 
loved women, and who had a wink and a jest for every 
tramping wench I The troopers tarried not, however, 
for further converse, but having satisfied their thirst, 
hurried and clattered from the yard. At the sight of the 
ominous tyrnbesteres Sibyll had drawn back, without 
daring to close the lattice she had opened ; and the 
women, seating themselves on a bench, began sleeking 
their long hair and smoothing their garments from the 
scraps of straw and litter which betokened the nature of 
their resting-place. 

“Ho, girls!’’ said the fat landlord, “ye will pay me 
for board and bed, I trust, by a show of your craft. I 
have two right worshipful lodgers up yonder, whose 
lattice looks on the yard, and whom ye may serve to 
divert.’’ 

Sibyll trembled, and crept to her father’s side. 

“And,” continued the landlord, “if they like the clash 
of your musicals, it may bring ye a groat or so, to help 


224 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

ye on your journey. By the way — whither wend ye, 
wenches ? ” 

“ To a bonny, jolly fair,’’ answered the sinister voice 
of Graul — 

“Where a mighty showman dyes 
The greenery into red ; 

Where, presto! at the word 

Lies his Fool without a head — 

Where he gathers in the crowd ^ 

To the trumpet and the drum, 

With a jingle and a tinkle, 

Graul’s merry lasses come 1 ” 

As the two closing lines were caught by the rest of 
the tymbesteres, striking their timbrels, the crew formed 
themselves into a semicircle, and commenced their dance. 
Their movements, though wantou and fantastic, were not 
without a certain wild grace ; and the address with which, 
from time to time, they cast up their instruments and 
caught them in descending, joined to the surprising 
agility with which, in the evolutions of the dance, one 
seemed now to chase, now to fly from, the other, darting 
to and fro through the ranks of her companions, winding 
and wheeling — the chain now seemingly broken in dis- 
order, now united link to link, as the whole force of the 
instruments clashed in chorus — made an exhibition inex- 
pressibly attractive to the vulgar. 

The tymbesteres, however, as may well be supposed, 
failed to draw Sibyll or Warner to the window ; and they 
exchanged glances of spite and disappointment. 

“Marry,” quoth the landlord, after a hearty laugh at 
the diversion, “ I do wrong to be so gay, when so many 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


22b 


good friends perhaps are lying stark and cold. But 
what then ? Life is short — laugh while we can I ” 

“ Hist ! ” whispered his housekeeper ; “ art wode, Ned I 
Wouldst thou have it discovered that thou hast such 
quality birds in the cag6 — noble Yorkists — at the very 
time when Lord Hastings himself may be riding this way 
after the victory ? ” 

“ Always right, Meg — and I’m an ass ! ” answered the 
host, in the same under-tone. “ But my good-nature will 
be the death of me some day. Poor gentlefolks, they 
must be unked dull, yonder!” 

‘■If the Yorkists come hither — which we shall soon 
know by the scouts — we must shift Sir John and the 
damsel to the back of the house, over the tap-room.” 

“ Manage it as thou wilt, Meg — but, thou seest, they 
keep quiet and snug. Ho, ho, ho ! that tall tymbestere 
is supple enough to make an owl hold his sides with 
laughing. Ah! hollo, there, tymbesteres — ri^audes — 
tramps — the devil’s chickens — down, down!” 

The host was too late in his order. With a sudden 
spring, Graul, who had long fixed her eye on the open 
lattice of the prisoners, had wreathed herself round one 
of the pillars that supported the stairs, swung lightly 
over the balustrade — and with a faint shriek, the startled 
Sibyll beheld the tymbestere’s hard, fierce eyes, glaring 
upon her through the lattice, as her long arm extended 
the timbrel for largess. But no sooner had Sibyll raised 
her face, than she was recognized. 

“ Ho I the wizard and the wizard’s daughter 1 Ho I 

p 


22(> THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

the gill 'vho glamours lords, and wears sarcenet and 
lawn I Ho ! the nigromancer, who starves the poor I 

At the sound of their leader’s cry, up sprang, up 
climbed the hellish sisters I One after the other, they 
darted through the lattice into the chamber. 

“The ronions I the foul fiend has distraught them 1 ” 
groaned the landlord, motionless with astonishment. But 
the more active Meg, calling to the varlets and scullions, 
whom the tymbesteres had collected in the yard, to follow 
her, bounded up the stairs, unlocked the door, and 
arrived in time to throw herself between the captives and 
the harpies, whom Sibyll’s rich super-tunic and Adam’s 
costly gown had inflamed into all the rage of appropria- 
tion. 

“What mean ye, wretches?” cried the bold Meg, pur- 
ple with anger. “ Do ye come for this into honest 
folks’ hostelries, to rob their guests in broad day — noble 
guests — g*liests of mark ! Oh, Sir John I Sir John I what 
will ye think of us ? ” 

“Oh, Sir John ! Sir John!” groaned the landlord, 
who had now moved his slow bulk into the room. 
‘<They shall be scourged. Sir John! They shall be 

put in the stocks — they shall be brent with hot iron 

they ” 

“ Ha, ha ! ” interrupted the terrible Graul, “ Guests of 
mark — noble^ guests, trow ye! Adam Warner, the 
wizard, and his daughter, whom we drove last night from 
their den, as many a time, sisters, and many, we have 
driven the rats from the charnel and cave.” 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS- 


227 


“ Wizard ! Adam I Blood of ray life ! ” stammered the 
landlord — “is his name Adam, after all?” 

“My name is Adam Warner,” said the old man, with 
dignity; “no wizard — a humble scholar, and a poor 
gentleman, who has injured no one. Wherefore, women 
’ — if women ye are — would ye injure mine and me ?” 

“ Faugh — wizard I ” returned Graul, folding her arms. 
“ Didst thou not send thy spawn, yonder, to spoil our 
mart with her gittern ? Hast thou not taught her the 
spells to win love from the noble and young ? Ho, how 
daintily the young witch robes herself ? Ho I laces and 
satins, and we shiver with the cold, and parch with the 
heat — and doff thy tunic, minion !” 

And Graul’s fierce gripe was on the robe, when the 
landlord interposed his huge arm, and held her at bay. 

“ Softly, my sucking dove, softly ! Clear the room, 
and be off ! ” 

“ Look to thyself, man. If thou harborest a wizard, 
against law — a wizard whom King Edward hath given 
up to the people — look to thy barns, they shall burn; 
look to thy cattle— they shall rot; look to thy secrets — 
they shall be told. Lancastrian, thou shalt hang ! We 

go we go ! We have friends among the mailed men of 

York. We go — we will return ! Woe to thee, if thou 
harborest the wizard and the succuba!” 

With that, Graul moved slowly to the door. Host and 
housekeeper, varlet, groom, and scullion, made way for 
her, in terror ; and still, as she moved, she kept her eyes 
on Sibyll, till her sisters, following in successive file, shut 


228 


HE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


out the hideous aspect ; and Meg, ordering away her 
gaping train, closed the door. 

The host and the housekeeper then gazed gravely at 
each other. Sibyll lay in her father’s arms breathing 
hard and convulsively. The old man’s face bent over her 
in silence. 

Meg drew aside her master. ^‘You must rid the 
house at once of these folks. I have heard talk of yon 
tymbesteres ; they are awsome in spite and malice. Every 
man to himself I” 

‘‘But the poor old gentleman, so mild — and the maid, 
so winsome I ” 

The last remark did not over-please the comely Meg. 
She advanced at once to Adam, and said, shortly — 

“Master — whether wizard or not, is no affair of a poor 
landlord, whose house is open to all; but ye have had 
food and wine — please to pay the reckoning, and God 
speed ye — ye are free to depart.” 

“We can pay you, mistress I ” exclaimed Sibyll, spring- 
ing up. “We have moneys yet. Here — here ! ” and she 
took from her gipsire the broad pieces which poor Madge’s 
precaution had placed therein, and which the bravoes had 
fortunately spared. 

The sight of the gold somewhat softened the house- 
wife. — “Lord Hastings is known to us,” continued Sibyll, 
perceiving the impression she had made; “suffer us to 
rest here till he pass this way, and ye will find yourselves 
repaid for the kindness.” 

“ By my troth,” said the landlord, “ye are most wel- 


THE LAST OP THE BARONST 


229 


come to all ray poor house containeth ; and as for these 
tymbesteres, I value them not a straw. No one can say 
Ned Porpustone is an ill man or inhospitable. Whoever 
can pay reasonably, is sure of good wine and civility at 
the Talbot.” 

With these and many similar protestations and as- 
surances, which were less heartily re-echoed by the house- 
wife, the landlord begged to conduct them to an apart- 
ment not so liable to molestation ; and after having led 
them down the principal stairs, through the bar, and 
thence up a narrow flight of steps, deposited them in a 
chamber at the back of the house, and lighted a sconce 
therein — for it was now near the twilight. He then 
insisted on seeing after their evening meal, and vanished 
with his assistant. The worthy pair were now of the 
same mind : for guests known to Lord Hastings, it was 
worth braving the threats of the tymbesteres ; especially 
since Lord Hastings, it seems, had just beaten the Lan- 
castrians. 

But, alas 1 while the active Meg was busy on the hip- 
pocras, and the worthy landlord was inspecting the savory 
operations of the kitchen, a vast uproar was heard with- 
out. A troop of disorderly Yorkist soldiers, who had 
been employed in dispersing the flying rebels, rushed 
helter-skelter into the house, and poured into the kitchen, 
bearing with them the detested tymbesteres who had en- 
countered them on their way. Among these soldiers were 
those who had congregated at Master Sancroft’s the day 
before, and they were well prepared to support the cause 

II.— 20 


230 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

of their gnesly paramours. Lord Hastings himself had 
retired for the night to a farm-house nearer the field of 
battle than the hostel : and as in those days discipline 
was lax enough after a victory, the soldiers had a right 
to licence. Master Porpustone found himself completely 
at the mercy of these brawling customers, the more rude 
and disorderly from the remembrance of the sour beer in 
the morning, and Graul Skellet^s assurances that Master 
Porpustone was a malignant Lancastrian. They laid 
hands on all the provisions in the house, tore the meats 
from the spit, devouring them half raw ; set the casks 
running over the floors ; and while they swilled and swore, 
and filled the place with the uproar of a hell broke loose, 
Graul Skellet, whom the lust for the rich garments of 
Sibyll still fired and stung, led her followers up the stairs 
towards the deserted chamber. Mine host perceived, but 
did not dare openly to resist the foray ; but as he was 
really a good-natured knave, and as, moreover, he feared 
ill consequences might ensue if any friends of Lord Hast- 
ings were spoiled, outraged — nay, peradventure, mur- 
dered — in his house, he resolved, at all events, to assist 
the escape of his guests. Seeing the ground thus clear 
of the tyrabesteres, he therefore stole from the riotous 
scene, crept up the back stairs, gained the chamber to 
which he had so happily removed his persecuted lodgers, 
and making them, in a few words, sensible that he was 
no longer able to protect them, and that the tymbesteres 
were now returned with an armed force to back their 
malice, conducted them safely to a wide casement only 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


23 ] 


some three or four feet from the soil of the solitary 
garden, and bade them escape and save themselves. 

“ The farm,” he whispered, “ where they say ray Lord 
HastingsJs quartered, is scarcely a mile and a half away; 
pass the garden wicket — leave Gladsmore Chase to tlie 
left hand — take the path to the right, through the wood, 
and you will see its roof among the apple-blossoms. Our 
Lady protect you, and say a word to my lord on behalf 
of poor Ned.” 

Scarce had he seen his guests descend into the garden, 
before he heard the yell of the tyrabesteres, in the oppo- 
site part of the house, as tliey ran from room to room 
after their prey. He hastened to regain the kitchen ; 
and presently the tymbesteres, breathless and panting, 
rushed in, and demanded their victims. 

“Marry,” quoth the landlord, with the self-possession 
of a cunning old soldier — “think ye I cumbered my 
house with such cattle, after pretty lasses like you had 
given me the inkling of what they were ? No wizard 
shall fly away with the sign of the Talbot, if I can help 
it. They skulked off, I can promise ye, and did not even 
mount a couple of broom-sticks which I handsomely 
offered for their ride up to London.” 

“ Thunder and bombards ! ” cried a trooper, already 
half-drunk, and seizing Graul in his iron arras — “put the 
conjuror out of thine head now, and buss me, Graul — 
buss me ! ’’ 

Then the riot became hideous ; the soldiers, following 
their comrade’s example, embraced the grim glee-women. 


232 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


tearing and hauling them to and fro, one from the other, 
round and round, dancing, hallooing, chanting, howling, 
by the blaze of a mighty fire — many a rough face and 
hard hand smeared with blood still wet, communicated 
the stain to the cheeks and garb of those foul feres, and 
the whole revel becoming so unutterably horrible and 
ghastly, that even the veteran landlord fled from the spot, 
trembling and crossing himself: — And so, streaming 
athwart the lattice, and silvering over that fearful merry- 
making, rose the moon 1 

But when fatigue and drunkenness had done their 
work, and the soldiers fell one over the other upon the 
floor, the tables, the benches, into the heavy sleep of riot, 
Graul suddenly rose from amidst the huddled bodies, and 
then, silently as ghouls from a burial-ground, her sisters 
emerged also from their resting-places beside the sleepers. 
The dying light of the fire contended but feebly with the 
livid rays of the moon, and played fantastically over the 
gleaming robes of the tymbesteres. They stood erect for 
a moment, listening, Graul with her finger on her lips ; 
then they glided to the door, opened and reclosed it — 
darted across the yard, scaring the beasts that slept 
there ; the watch-dog barked, but drew back, bristling 
and showing his fangs, as Red Grisell, undaunted, pointed 
her knife, and Graul flung him a red peace-sop of meat. 
They launched themselves through the open entrance, 
gained the space beyond, and scoured away to the battle 
field. 

Meanwhile, Sibyll and her father were still under the 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 233 

canopy of heaven, they had scarcely passed the garden 
and entered the fields, when they saw horsemen riding t.; 
and fro in all directions. Sir Geoffrey Gates, the rebel 
leader, had escaped ; the reward of three hundred marks 
was set on his head, and the riders were in search of the 
fugitive. The human form itself had become a terror to 
the hunted outcasts : they crept under a thick hedge till 
the horsemen had disappeared, and then resumed their 
way. They gained the wood ; but there again they 
halted at the sound of voices, and withdrew themselves 
under covert of some entangled and trampled bushes. 
This time it was but a party of peasants, whom curiosity 
had led to see the field of battle, and who were now re- 
turning home. Peasants and soldiers both were human, 
and therefore to be shunned by those whom the age itself 
put out of the pale of law. At last, the party also left 
the path free ; and now it was full night. They pursued 
their way — they cleared the wood — before them lay the 
field of battle ; and a deeper silence seemed to fall over 
the world 1 The first stars had risen, but not yet the 
moon. The gleam of armoi'from prostrate bodies, which 
it had~mailed in vain, reflected the quiet rays ; here and 
there flickered watch-fires, where sentinels were set, but 
they were scattered and remote. The outcasts paused 
and shuddered, but there seemed no holier way for their 
feet ; and the roof of the farmers homestead slept on tlie 
opposite side of the field, amidst white orchard blossoms, 
wliitened still more by the stars. They went on, hand in 
hand — the dead, after all, were less terrible than the 
2b * 


234 


THE LAST OP THE BAEONS. 


living. Sometimes a stern, upturned face, distorted by 
the last violent agony, the eyes unclosed and glazed, en- 
countered them with its stony stare ; but the weapon was 
powerless in the stiff hand — the menace and the insult 
came not from the hueless lips — persecution reposed, at 
last, in the lap of slaughter. They had gone midway 
through the field, when they heard from a spot where the 
corpses lay thickest piled, a faint voice calling upon God 
for pardon ; and, suddenly, it was answered by a tone of 
fiercer agony — that did not pray, but curse. 

By a common impulse, the gentle wanderers moved 
silently to the spot. 

The sufferer, in prayer, was a youth scarcely passed 
from boyhood : his helm had been cloven, his head was 
bare, and his long light hair clotted with gore, fell over 
his shoulders. Beside him lay a strong-built, powerful 
form, which writhed in torture, pierced under the arm by 
a Yorkist arrow, and the shaft still projected from the 
wound — and the man’s curse answered the boy’s prayer. 

“Peace to thy parting soul, brother!” said Warner, 
bending over the man. • 

“ Poor sufferer ! ” said Sibyll to the boy ; “ cheer thee ; 
we will send succor ; thou inayest live yet 1 ” 

“ Water 1 water I — hell and torture I — water, I say ! ” 
groaned the man; “one drop of water!” 

It was the captain of the marauders who had captured 
the wanderers. 

“ Thine arm ! lift me ! move me ! that evil man scares 
my soul from heaven ! ” gasped the boy. 


THE LAST OP THE BAEONS. 


235 


And Adam preached penitence to the one that cursed, 
and Sibyll knelt down and prayed with the one that 
prayed. — And up rose the moon I 

Lord Hastings sat, with his victorious captains, — over 
mead, morat, and wine — in the humble hall of the farm. 

“ So,” said he, “ we have crushed the last embers of 
the rebellion I This Sir Geoffrey Gates is a restless and 
resolute spirit ; pity he escapes again for further mischief. 
But the house of Nevile, that over-shadowed the rising 
race, hath fallen at last — a waisall, brave sirs, to the new 
men 1 ” 

The door was thrown open, and an -old soldier entered 
abruptly. 

“ My lord 1 my lord ! Oh I my poor son! he cannot 
be found I The women, who ever follow the march of 
soldiers, will be on the ground to despatch the wounded, 
that they may rifle the corpses I 0 God ! if my son — 

my boy — my only son ” 

“ I wist not, my brave Mervil, that thou hadst a son 
in our bands ; yet I know each man by name and sight. 
Courage ! Our wounded have been removed, and sentries 
are placed to guard the field ! ” 

“ Sentries 1 0 my lord, knowest thou not that they 

wink at the crime that plunders the dead ? Moreover, 
these corpse-riflers creep stealthily and unseen, as the red 
earth-worms, to the carcase. Give me some few of thy 

men give me warrant to search the field I My son — 

j^y boy — not sixteen summers — and his mother !” — 
The man stopped, and sobbed. 


236 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

^ Willingly 1 ’’ said the gentle Hastings, ‘‘willingly! 
And woe to the sentries, if it be as thou sayest ! I will 
go myself, and see ! — Torches there — what ho ! — the 
good captain careth even for his dead I — Thy son I I 
marvel I knew him not I — Whom served he under 

“ My lord ! my lord 1 pardon him ! He is but a boy 
— they misled him ! — he fought for the rebels. He crossed 
my path to-day — my arm was raised — we knew each 
other, and he fled from his father’s sword ! — Just as the 
strife was ended, I saw him again — I saw him fall ! — O 
mercy, mercy ! do not let him perish of his wounds or by 
the rifler’s knife, even though a rebel ! ” 

Homo sum!^^ quoth the noble chief, “ I am a man ! 
and, even in these bloody times. Nature commands when 
she speaks in a father’s voice. 1 Mervil, I marked thee 
to-day I Thou art a brave fellow. I meant thee advance- 
ment — I give thee, instead, thy son’s pardon, if he lives 
— ten masses if he died as a soldier’s son should die, no 
matter under what flag — antelope or lion, pierced man- 
fully in the breast — his feet to the foe ! Come, I will 
search with thee ! ” 

The boy yielded up his soul while Sibyll prayed, and 
her sweet voice soothed the last pang; and the man 
ceased to curse while Adam spoke of God’s power and 
mercy, and his breath ebbed, gasp upon gasp, away. 
While thus detained, the wanderers saw not pale, fleeting 
figures, that had glided to the ground, and moved, gleam- 
ing, irregular, and rapid, as marsh-fed vapors, from heap 
to heap of the slain. With a loud, wild cry, the robber 


237 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

Lancastrian half sprung to his feet, in the paroxysm of 
the last struggle, and then fell on his face — a corpse ! 

The cry reached the tymbesteres, and Graul rose from 
a body from which she had extracted a few coins smeared 
with blood, and darted to the spot ; and so, as Adam 
raised his face from contemplating the dead, whose last 
moments he had sought to soothe, the Alecto of the 
battle-field stood before him, her knife bare in her gory 
hand. Red Grisell, who had just left (with a spurn of 
wrath — for the pouch was empty) the corpse of a soldier, 
round whose neck she had twined her hot clasp the day 
before, sprang towards Sibyll ; the rest of the sisterhood 
flocked to the place, and laughed in glee as they beheld 
their unexpected prey. The danger was horrible and 
imminent ; no pity was seen in those savage eyes. The 
wanderers prepared for death — when, suddenly, torches 
flashed over the ground. A cry was heard — “ See, the 
riflers of the dead I ” Armed men bounded forward, and 
the startled wretches uttered a shrill unearthly scream, 
and fled from the spot, leaping over the carcases, and 
doubling and winding, till they had vanished into the 
darkness of the wood. 

‘‘Provost I” said a commanding voice, “hang me up 
those sentinels at day-break I 

“ My son ! my boy ! speak, Hal— speak to me. He is 
here — he is found I” exclaimed the old soldier, kneeling 
beside the corpse at SibylPs feet. 

“ My lord I my beloved ! my Hastings I ” And Sibyll 
fell insensible before the chief. 

2x 


238 


THE LAST or THE BARONS. 


CHAPTER YII. 

The subtle Craft of Richard of Gloucester. 

It was some weeks after the defeat of Sir Geoffrey 
Gates, and Edward was at Shene, with his gay court. 
Reclined at length within a pavilion placed before a cool 
fountain, in the royal gardens, and surrounded by his 
favorites, the king listened indolently to the music of his 
minstrels, and sleeked the plumage of his favorite falcon, 
perched upon his wrist. And scarcely would it have been 
possible to recognize in that lazy voluptuary the daunt- 
less soldier, before whose lance, as deer before the hound, 
had so lately fled, at bloody Erpingham, the chivalry of 
the Lancastrian Rose ; but remote from the pavilion, and 
in one of the deserted bowling-alleys. Prince Richard and 
Lord Montagu walked apart, in earnest conversation. 
The last of these noble personages had remained inactive 
during the disturbances, and Edward had not seemed to 
entertain any suspicion of his participation in the anger 
and revenge of Warwick. The king took from him, it is 
true, the lands and earldom of Northumberland, and re- 
stored them to the Percy, but he had accompanied this 
act with gracious excuses, alleging the necessity of con- 
ciliating the head of an illustrious house, which had for- 
mally entered into allegiance to the dynasty of York, and 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 239 

bestowed upon his early favorite, in compensation, the 
dignity of marquis.* The politic king, in thus depriving 
Montagu of the wealth and the retainers of the Percy, 
reduced him, as a younger brother, to a comparative 
poverty and insignificance, which left him dependent on 
Edward’s favor, and deprived him, as he thought, of the 
power of active mischief ; at the same time, more than 
ever, he insisted on Montagu’s society, and summoning 
his attendance at the court, kept his movements in watch- 
ful surveillance. 

“Nay, my lord,” said Richard, pursuing with much 
unction the conversation he had commenced, “you wrong 
me much. Holy Paul be my witness, if you doubt the 
deep sorrow I feel at the unhappy events which have led 
to the severance of my kinsmen I England seems to me 
to have lost its smile, in losing the glory of Earl War- 
wick’s presence, and Clarence is my brother, and was my 
friend ; and thou knowest, Montagu, thou knowest, how 
dear to my heart was the hope to win for my wife and 
lady the gentle Anne.” 

“ Prince,” said Montagu, abruptly, “ though the pride 
of Warwick and the honor of our house may have for- 
bidden the public revelation of the cause which fired 
my brother to rebellion, thou, at least, art privy to a 
secret ” 

* Montagu said, bitterly, of this new dignity, “ He takes from 
me the Earldom and domains of Northumberland, and makes me a 
Marquis, with a pie’s nest to maintain it withal.” — Stowe, Edw. 
IV. — Warkworth Chronicle. 


240 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

“ Cease I ” exclaimed Richard, in great emotion, pro- 
bably sincere, for his face grew livid, and its muscles 
were nervously convulsed. “I would not have that re- 
membrance stirred from its dark repose. I would fain 
forget a brother’s hasty frenzy, in the belief of his last- 
ing penitence.” He paused and turned his face, gasped 
for breath, and resumed — “ The cause justified the father ; 
it had justified me in the father’s cause, had Warwick 
listened to my suit, and given me the right to deem insult 
to his daughter, injury to myself.” 

“And if, my prince,” returned Montagu, looking round 
him, and in a subdued whisper, “ if yet the hand of Lady 
Anne were pledged to you ? ” 

“Tempt me not — tempt me not I” cried the prince, 
crossing himself. Montagu continued — 

“ Our cause, I mean Lord Warwick’s cause, is not 
lost, as the king deems it.” 

“ Proceed,” said Richard, casting down his eyes, while 
his countenance settled back into its thoughtful calm. 

“I mean,” renewed Montagu, “that in my brother’s 
flight, his retainers were taken by surprise. In vain the 
king would confiscate his lands — he cannot confiscate 
men’s hearts. If Warwick to-morrow set his armed heel 
upon the soil, trowest thou, sagacious and clear-judging 
prince, that the strife which would follow would be but 
another field of Losecote ? * Thou hast heard of the 
honors with which King Louis has received the earl. 

* The battle of Erpingham, so popularly called, in contempt of 
the rebellious run-aways. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 2U 

Will that king grudge him ships and moneys? And 
meanwhile, thinkest thou that his favorers sleep?” 

“ But if he land, Montagu,” said Richard, who seemed 
to listen with an attention that awoke all the hopes of 
Montagu, coveting so powerful an ally — “ if he land, and • 
make open war on Edward — we must say the word boldly 
— what intent can he proclaim ? It is not enough to say 
King Edward shall not reign ; the earl must say also 
what king England should elect!” 

Prince,” answered Montagu, before I reply to that 
question, vouchsafe to hear my own hearty desire and 
wish. Though the king has deeply wronged my brother, 
though he has despoiled me of the lands, which were, 
peradventure, not too large a reward for twenty victories 
in his cause, and restored them to the house that ever 
ranked amongst the strong-holds of his Lancastrian foe, 
yet often, when I am most resentful, the memory of my 
royal seigneur’s past love and kindness comes over me, 
— above all, the thought of the solemn contract between 
his daughter and my son ; — and I feel (now the first heat 
of natural anger at an insult offered to my niece is some- 
what cooled), that if Warwick did land, I could almost 
forget my brother for my king.” 

‘'Almost/” repeated Richard, smiling. 

“ 1 am plain with your highness, and say but what I 
feel. I would even now fain trust, that by your media- 
tion, the king may be persuaded to make such conces- 
sions and excuses as in truth would not misbeseem him, 
to the father of Lady Anne, and his own kinsman ; and 
II. — 21 


Q 


242 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

that yet, ere it be too late, I may be spared the bitter 
choice between the ties of blood, and ray allegiance to 
the king.” 

“But failing this hope (which I devoutly share), — and 
.Edward, it must be owned, could scarcely trust to a letter, 
still less to a messenger, the confession of a crime — fail- 
ing this, and your brother land, and I side with him for 
love of Anne, pledged to me as a bride, — ^^what king 
would he ask England to elect?” 

“ The Duke of Clarence loves yon dearly. Lord Rich- 
ard,” replied Montagu. “ Enowest thou not bow often 
he hath said, ‘ By sweet St. George, if Gloucester would 
join me, I would make Edward know we were all one 
man’s sons, who should be more preferred and promoted 
than strangers of his wife’s blood.’”* 

Richard’s countenance for a moment evinced disap- 
pointment; but he said drily, “Then Warwick would 
propose that Clarence should be king ? — And the great 
barons, and the honest burghers, and the sturdy yeomen, 
would, you think, not stand aghast at the manifesto which 
declares not that the dynasty of York is corrupt and 
faulty, but that the younger son should depose the elder 
— that younger son, mark me I not only unknown in war, 
and green in council, but gay, giddy, vacillating — not 
subtle of wit, and resolute of deed, as he who so aspires 
should be I — Montagu — a vain dream I ” — Richard 
paused, and then resumed, in a low tone, as to himself— 


* Hall. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


243 


“ Oh ! not so — not so are kings cozened from their thrones 
— a pretext must blind men — say they are illegitimaie — 
say they are too young — too feeble — too anything — glide 
into their place — and then, not war — not war. You slay 
them not — disappear ! The duke’s face, as he 
muttered, took a sinister and a dark expression — his eyes 
seemed to gaze on space. Suddenly recovering himself 
as from a reverie, he turned, with his wonted sleek and 
gracious aspect, to the startled Montagu, and said, “ I 
was but quoting from Italian history, good my lord — 
wise lore, but terrible, and murderous. Return we to 
the point. Thou seest Clarence could not reign, and as 
well,” added the prince, with a slight sigh — “ as well or 
better (for, without vanity, I have more of a king’s metal 
in me) might I — even i—aspire to my brother’s crown I” 
Here he paused, and glanced rapidly and keenly at the 
marquis ;_but whether or not in these words he had 
sought to sound Montagu, and that glance suflBced to 
show him it were bootless or dangerous to speak more 
plainly, he resumed with an altered voice— “ Enough of 
this : Warwick will discover the idleness of such design ; 
and if he land, his trumpets must ring to a more kindling 
measure. John Montagu, thinkest thou that Margaret 
of Anjou and the Lancastrians will not rather win thy 
brother to their side ? There is the true danger to 
Edward — none elsewhere.” 

“And if so?” said Montagu, watching his listener’s 
countenance. Richard started, and gnawed his lip. 
“Mark me,” continued the marquis — “ I repeat that I 


244 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


would fain hope yet, that Edward may appease the earl ; 
but if not, and rather than rest dishonored and aggrieved, 
Warwick link himself with Lancaster, and thou join him 
as Anne’s betrothed and lord, what matters who the 
puppet on the throne I — we and thou shall be the rulers ; 
or, if thou reject,” added the marquis, artfully, as he 
supposed, exciting the jealousy of the duke — “Henry 
has a son — a fair, and, they say, a gallant prince — care- 
fully tutored in the knowledge of our English laws, and 
who, my lord of Oxford, somewhat in the confidence of 
the Lancastrians, assures me, would rejoice to forget old 
feuds, and call Warwick ‘father,’ and my niece ‘Lady 
and Princess of Wales.’” 

With all his dissimulation, Richard could ill conceal 
the emotions of fear — of jealousy — of dismay, which 
these words excited. 

“ Lord Oxford ! ” he cried, stamping his foot. “Ha ! 
John de Yere — pestilent traitor, plottest thou thus? 
But we can yet seize thy person, and will have thy 
head.” 

Alarmed at this burst, and suddenly made aware that 
he had laid his breast too bare to the boy, whom he had 
thought to dazzle and seduce to his designs, Montagu 
said, falteringly — “ But, my lord, our talk is but in con- 
fidence: at your own prayer, with your own plighted 
word, of prince and of kinsman, that, whatever my frank- 
ness may utter, should not pass farther. Take,” added 
the nobleman, with proud dignity — “take my head rather 
than Lord Oxford’s; for I deserve death, if I reveal to 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


245 


one, who can betray, the loose words of another’s intimacy 
and trust ! ” 

“Forgive me, my cousin,” said Richard, meekly ; “my 
love to Anne transported me too far. Lord Oxford’s 
words, as you report them, had conjured up a rival, and 

— but enough of this. — And now,” added the prince, 
gravely, and with a steadiness of voice and manner that 
gave a certain majesty to his small stature — “now, as 
thou hast spoken openly, openly also will I reply. I 
feel the wrong to the Lady Anne as to myself; deeply, 
burningly, and lastingly, will it live in my mind ; it may 
be, sooner or later, to rise to gloomy deeds, even against 
Edward and Edward’s blood. But no, I have the king’s 
solemn protestations of repentance ; his guilty passion 
has burned into ashes, and he now sighs — gay Edward 

— for a lighter fere. I cannot join with Clarence, less 
can I join with the Lancastrians. My birth makes me 
the prop of the throne of York — to guard it as a 
heritage (who knows) that may descend to mine — nay, 
to me I And, mark me well I if Warwick attempt a war 
of fratricide, he is lost ; if, on the other hand, he can 
submit himself to the hands of Margaret, stained with 
his father’s gore, the success of an hour will close in the 
humiliation of a life. There is a third way left, and that 
way thou hast piously and wisely shown. Let him, like 
me, resign revenge, and, not exacting a confession and a 
cry of peccavi, which no king, much less King Edward 
the Plantagenet, can whimper forth — let him accept such 
overtures as his liege can make. His titles and castles 

21 * 


UP> 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


shall be restoied, equal possessions to those thou hast 
lost assigned to thee, and all my guerdon, (if I can so 
negotiate) as all my ambition — his daughter’s hand. 
Muse on this, and for the peace and weal of the realm, 
so limit all thy schemes, my lord and cousin I ” 

With these words the prince pressed the hand of the 
marquis, and walked slowly towards the king’s pavilion. 

“ Shame on my ripe manhood and lore of life,” mut- 
tered Montagu, enraged against himself and deeply mor- 
tified. “ How, sentence by sentence, and step by step, 
yon crafty pigmy led me on, till all our projects — all our 
fears and hopes, are revealed to him, who but views them 
as a foe. Anne betrothed to one, who even in fiery 
youth can thus beguile and dupe! Warwick decoyed 
hither upon fair words, at the will of one whom Italy 
(boy, there thou didst forget thy fence of cunning !) has 
taught how the great are slain not, but disappear! No, 
even this defeat instructs me now. But right — right I 
the reign of Clarence is impossible, and that of Lancaster 
is ill-omened and portentous ; and after ail, my son stands 
nearer to the throne than any subject, in his alliance with 
the Lady Elizabeth. Would to heaven the king could 

yet But out on me I this is no hour for musing on 

mine own aggrandizement ; rather let me fly at once and 

warn Oxford — imperilled by my imprudence against 

that dark eye which hath set watch upon his life.” 

At that thought, which showed that Montagu, with all 
his worldliness, was not forgetful of one of the first duties 
of knight and gentleman, the marquis hastened up the 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 247 

alley — in the opposite direction to that taken by Glou^ 
cester and soon found himself in the court-yard, wherfe 
a goodly company were mounting their haquenees and 
palfreys, to enjoy a summer ride through the neighboring 
chase. The cold and half-slighting salutations of these 
minions of the hour, which now mortified the Nevile, 
despoiled of the possessions that had rewarded his long 
and brilliant services, — contrasting forcibly the reveren- 
tial homage he had formerly enjoyed, stung Montagu to 
the quick. 

“Whither ride you, brother marquis?’’ said young 
Lord Dorset, f Elizabeth’s son by her first marriage), as 
Montagu called to his single squire, who was in waiting 
with his horse. “ Some secret expedition, methinks, for 
r have known the day when the Lord Montagu never 
rode from his king’s palace with less than thirty squires.” 

“ Since my Lord Dorset prides himself on his memory,” 
answered the scornful lord, “he may remember also the 
day when, if a Nevile mounted in haste, he bade the first 
Woodville he saw hold the stirrup.” 

And regarding the “ brother-marquis” with a stately 
eye that silenced and awed retort, the long-descended 
Montagu passed the courtiers, and rode slowly on till out 
of sight of the palace ; he then pushed into a hand-gallop, 
and halted not till he had reached London, and gained 
the house in which, then, dwelt the Earl of Oxford, the 
most powerful of all the Lancastrian nobles not in exile, 
and who had hitherto temporized with the reigning house. 

Two days afterwards the news reached Edward that 


248 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


Lord Oxford and Jasper of Pembroke — uncle to the boy 
afterwards Henry YII. — had sailed from England. 

The tidings reached the king in his chamber, where he . 
was closeted with Gloucester. The conference between 
them seemed to have been warm and earnest, for Ed- 
ward’s face was flushed, and Gloucester’s brow was per- 
turbed and sullen. 

“Now heaven be praised !’’ cried the king, extending 
to Richard the letter which communicated the flight of 
the disaflected lords. “We have two enemies the less 
in our roiaulme, and many a barony the more to confis- 
cate to our kingly wants. Ha — ha I these Lancastrians 
only serve to enrich us. Frowning still, Richard ; smile, 
boy ! ” 

“ Foi de mon dme, Edward,” said Richard, with a 
bitter energy, strangely at variance with his usual unc- 
tions deference to the king, “your highness’s gaiety is 
ill-seasoned ; you reject all the means to assure your 
throne — you rejoice in all the events that imperil it. I 
prayed you to lose not a moment in conciliating, if possi- 
ble, the great lord whom you own you have wronged, 
and you replied that you would rather lose your crown 
than win back the arm that gave it you.” 

‘Gave it me -I an error, Richard I that crown was at 
once the heritage of my own birth, and the achievement 
of my own sword. But were it as you say, it is not in a 
king’s nature to bear the presence of a power more for- 
midable than his own — to submit to a voice that com- 
mands rather than counsels ; and the happiest chance 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


249 


that ever befell me is the exile of this earl. How, after 
what hath chanced, can I ever see his face again without 
humiliation, or he mine without resentment?’^ 

‘‘ So you told me anon, and I answered. If that be so, 
and your highness shrinks from the man you have injured, 
{beware at least that Warwick, if he may not return as a 
friend, come not back as an irresistible foe. If you will 
not conciliate, crush ! Hasten by all arts to separate 
Clarence from Warwick. Hasten to prevent the union 
of the earl’s popularity and Henry’s rights. Keep eye 
upon all the Lancastrian, lords, and see that none quit 
the realm, where they are captives, to join a camp where 
they can rise into leaders. And at the very moment I 
urge you to place strict watch upon Oxford — to send 
your swiftest riders to seize Jasper of Pembroke, you 
laugh with glee to hear that Oxford and Pembroke are 
gone to swell the army of your foes I ” 

^‘Better foes out of my realm than in it,” answered 
Edward, drily. 

“My liege, I say no more,” and Richard rose. “I 
'would forestall a danger ; it but remains for me to share 
it.” 

The king was touched. “Tarry yet, Richard,” he 
said; and then, fixing his brother’s ey-e, he continued, 
with a half-smile and a heightened color, “ Though we 
know thee true and leal to us, we yet know also, Rich- 
ard, that thou hast personal interest in thy counsels. 
Thou wouldst by one means or another soften or con- 
strain the earl into giving thee the hand of Arne. Well, 


250 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

then, grant that Warwick and Clarence expel King Ed- 
ward from his throne, they may bring a bride to console 
thee for the ruin of a brother.” 

“ Thou hast no right to taunt or to suspect me, my 
liege,” returned Richard, with a quiver'in his lip. “ Thou 
hast included me in thy meditated wrong to Warwick; 
and had that wrong been done ” 

“ Peradventure it had made thee espouse Warwick’s 
quarrel ? ” 

“ Bluntly, yes ! ” exclaimed Richard, almost fiercely, 
and playing with his dagger. “But (he added, with a 
sudden change of voice), I understand and know thee 
better than the earl did or could. I know what in thee 
is but thoughtless impulse, haste of passion, the habit 
kings form of forgetting all things save the love or hate, 
the desire or anger, of a moment. Thou hast told me 
thyself, and with tears, of thy offence ; thou hast pardoned 
my boy’s burst of anger; I have pardoned thy evil 
thought; thou hast told me thyself that another face has 
succeeded to the brief empire of Anne’s blue eye, and 
hast further pledged me thy kingly word, that if I can yet 
compass the hand of a cousin, dear to me from child- 
hood, thou wilt confirm the union.” 

“It is true,” said Edward. “But if thou wed thy 
bride, keep her aloof from the court — nay, frown not, my 
boy, I mean simply that I would not blush before my 
brother’s wdfe I ” 

Richard bowed low in order to conceal the expression 


THE LAST Oh' THE BARONS. 


251 


of his face, and went on without further notice of the 
explanation. 

“And all this considered, Edward, I swear by Saint 
Paul, the holiest saint to , thoughtful men, and by St. 
George, the noblest patron ,to high-born warriors, that 
thy crown and thine honor are as dear to me as if they 
were mine own. Whatever sins Richard of Gloucester 
may live to harbor and repent, no man shall ever say of 
him that he was a recreant to the honor of his country,* 
or slow to defend the rights of his ancestors from the 
treason of a vassal or the sword of a foreign foe. There- 
fore, I say again, if thou reject my honest counsels — if 
thou suffer Warwick to unite .with Lancaster and France 
— if the ships of Louis bear to your shores an enemy, 
the might of whom your reckless daring undervalues, fore- 
most in the field in battle, nearest to your side in exile, 
shall Richard Plantagenet be found I ” 

These words, being uttered with sincerity, and conveying 
a promise never forfeited, ,were more impressive than tlie 
subtlest eloquence the wily and accomplished Gloucester 
never employed as the cloak to guile, and they so affected 
Edward, that he threw his arms around his brother ; and 
after one of those bursts of emotion which were frequent 
in one whose feelings were never deep and lasting, but 
easily aroused and warmly spoken, he declared himself 

* So Lord Bacon observes of Richard, with that discrimination., 
even in the strongest censure, of which profound judges of man 
kind are alone capable, that he was “a king jealous of the hoiiov 
01 the English nation.” 


252 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

ready to listen to and adopt all means which Kichard’s 
art could suggest for the better maintenance of their 
common weal and interests. 

And then, with that wondrous, if somewhat too rest- 
less and over-refining energy which belonged to him, 
Richard rapidly detailed the scheme of his profound and 
dissimulating policy. His keen and intuitive insight into 
human nature had shown him the stern necessity which, 
against their very will, must unite Warwick with Marga- 
ret of Anjou. His conversation with Montagu had left 
no doubt of that peril on his penetrating mind. He 
foresaw that this union might be made durable and sacred 
by the marriage of Anne and Prince Edward ; and to de- 
feat this alliance was his first object, partly through Clar- 
ence, partly through Margaret herself. A gentlewoman 
in the Duchess of Clarence’s train had been arrested on 
the point of embarking to join her mistress. Richard 
had already seen and conferred with this lady, whose 
ambition, duplicity, and talent for intrigue were known 
to him. Having secured her by promises of the most 
lavish dignities and rewards, he promised that she should 
be permitted to join the duchess wdth secret messages to 
Isabel and the duke, warning them both that Warwick 
and Margaret would forget their past feud in present 
sympathy, and that the rebellion against King Edward, 
instead of placing them on the throne, would humble 

them to be subordinates and aliens to the real profiters 

the Lancastrians.* He foresaw what effect these waru- 


* Comines, 3, c. 5 ; Hall ,* Holliushed. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


263 


ings would have upon the vain duke and the ambitious 
Isabel, whose character was known to him from child- 
hood. He startled the king by insisting upon sending, 
at the same time, a trusty diplomatist to Margaret of 
Anjou, proffering to give the Princess Elizabeth (be- 
trothed to Lord Montagu’s son) to the young Prince 
Edward.* Thus, if the king, who had, as yet, no son, 
were to die, Margaret’s son, in right of his wife, as well 
as in that of his own descent, would peaceably ascend 
the throne. “Need I say that I mean not this in sad 
and serious earnest,” observed Richard, interrupting the 
astonished king — “ I mean it but to amuse the Anjouite, 
and to deafen her ears to any overtures from Warwick. 
If she listen, we gain time — that time will inevitably 
renew irreconcilable quarrel between herself and the earl. 
His hot temper and desire of revenge will not brook de- 
lay. He will land, unsupported by Margaret and her 
partisans, and without any fixed principle of action which 
can strengthen force by opinion.” 

“ You are right, Richard,” said Edward, whose faithless 
cunning comprehended the more sagacious policy it could 
not originate. “All be it as you will.” 

“And in the meanwhile,” added Richard, “watch well, 
but anger not, Montagu and the archbishop. It were 
dangerous to seem to distrust them till proof be clear — 
it were dull to believe them true. I go at once to fulfil 
my task.” 

* “Original Letters from Ilarleian MSS.” — Edited by Sir H. 
Ellis (Second Series). 

II. — 22 


2y 


254 


THE LAST OP THE BARONfi. 


CHAPTER YII. 

Warwick and his Family in Exile. 

We now summon the reader on a longer if less classic 
journey than from Thebes to Athens, and waft him on a 
rapid wing from Sheue to Amboise. We must suppose 
that the two emissaries of Gloucester have already arrived 
at their several destinations — the lady has reached Isabel ; 
— the envoy, Margaret. 

In one of the apartments appropriated to the earl in 
the royal palace, within the embrasure of a vast Gothic 
casement, sat Anne of Warwick ; the small wicket in the 
window was open, and gave a view of a wide and fair 
garden, interspersed with thick bosquets, and regular 
alleys, over which the rich skies of the summer evening, 
a little before sunset, cast alternate light and shadow. 
Towards this prospect the sweet face of the Lady Anne 
was turned musingly. The riveted eye — the bended neck — 
the arms reclining on the knee — the slender fingers inter- 
laced — gave to her whole person the character of reverie 
and repose. 

In the same chamber were two other ladies ; the one 
was pacing the floor with slow but uneven steps, with 
lips moving from time to time, as if in self-commune, with 
the brow contracted slightly : her form and face took also 
the character of reverie, bnt not of repose 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 255 

The third female (the gentle and lovely mother of the 
other two) was seated, towards the centre of the room, 
before a small table, on which rested one of those religious 
manuscripts, full of the moralities and the marvels of 
cloister sanctity, which made so large a portion of the 
literature of the monkish ages. But her eye rested not 
on the Gothic letter, and the rich blazon of the holy book. 
With all a mother’s fear, and all a mother’s fondness, it 
glanced from Isabel to Anne — from Anne to Isabel, till 
at length in one of those soft voices, so rarely heard, 
which makes even a stranger love the speaker, the fair 
countess said — 

“ Come hither, my child, Isabel, give me thy hand, and 
whisper me what hath chafed thee.” 

“My mother,” replied the duchess, “it would become 
me ill to have a secret not known to thee, and yet, me- 
thinks, it would become me less to say aught to provoke 
thine anger.” 

“Anger, Isabel ! who ever knew anger for those they 
love ? ” 

“ Pardon me, my sweet mother,” said Isabel, relaxing 
her haughty brow, and she approached and kissed her 
mother’s cheek. 

The countess drew her gently to a seat by her side — 

“And now tell me all — unless, indeed, thy Clarence 
hath, in some lover’s hasty mood, vexed thy affection ; 
for of the household secrets, even a mother should not 
question the true wife.” 

Isabel paused, and glanced significantly at Anne. 


256 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

— see !” said the countess, smiling, though sadly 
. — She, too, hath thoughts that she will not tell to me ; 
but they seem not such as should alarm my fears as thine 
do. For the moment ere I spoke to thee, thy brow 
frowned, and her lip smiled. She hears us not — 
speak on.” 

“Is it then true, my mother, that Margaret of Anjou 
is hastening hither ; and can it be possible that King 
Louis can persuade my lord and father to meet, save in 
the field of battle, the arch-enemy of our house ? ” 

“Ask the earl thyself, Isabel ; Lord Warwick hath no 
concealment from his children. Whatever he doth is ever 
wisest, best, and knightliest — so, at least, may his chil- 
dren always deem I ” 

Isabel's color changed, and her eye flashed. But ere 
she could answer, the arras was raised, and Lord War- 
wick entered. But no longer did the hero’s mien and 
manner evince that cordial and tender cheerfulness which, 
in all the storms of his changeful life, he had hitherto 
displayed when coming from power and danger, from 
council or from camp, to man’s earthly paradise — a vir- 
tuous home. 

Gloomy and absorbed, his very dress — which, at that 
day, the Anglo-Norman deemed it a sin against self-dig- 
nity to neglect — betraying, by its disorder, that thorough 
change of the whole mind ; that terrible internal revolu- 
tion, which is made but, in strong natures, by the tyranny 
of a great care, or a great passion, the earl scarcely 
seemed to heed his countess, who rose hastily, but stopped 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 257 

in the timid fear and reverence of love at the sight of his 
stern aspect, — he threw himself abruptly on a seat, passed 
his hand over his face, and sighed heavily. 

That sigh dispelled the fear of the wife, and made her 
alive only to her privilege of the soother. She drew near, 
and, placing herself on the green rushes at his feet, took 
his hand and kissed it, but did not speak. 

The earPs eyes fell on the lovely face looking up to 
him through tears, his brow softened, he drew his hand 
gently from hers, placed it on her head, and said, in a 
low voice — 

“ God and our Lady bless thee, sweet wife 1 ” 

Then, looking round, he saw Isabel watching him in- 
tently, and, rising at once, he threw his arm round her 
waist, pressed her to his bosom, and said, “ My daughter, 
for thee and thine, day and night have I striven and 
planned in vain. I cannot reward thy husband as I would 
— I cannot give thee, as I had hoped, a throne I ” 

“What title so dear to Isabel,” said the countess, “as 
that of Lord Warwick’s daughter?” 

Isabel remained cold and silent, and returned not the 
earl’s embrace. 

Warwick was, happily, too absorbed in his own feel- 
ings to notice those of his child. Moving away, he con- 
tinued, as he paced the room (his habit in emotion, which 
Isabel, who had many minute external traits in common 
with her father, had unconsciously caught from him) — 

“ Till this morning, I hoped still that my name and 
services, that Clarence’s popular bearing, and his birth 


R 


258 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


of Plantagenet, would suffice to summon the English 
people round our standard — that the false Edward would 
be driven, on our landing, to fly the realm ; and that, 
without change to the dynasty of York, Clarence, as 
next male heir, would ascend the throne. True, I saw all 
the obstacles — all the difficulties, — I was warned of them 
before I left England ; but still I hoped. Lord Oxford 
has arrived — he has just left me. We have gone over 
the chart of the way before us, weighed the worth of 
every name, for and against ; and, alas I I cannot but 
allow that all attempt to place the younger brother on 
the throne of the elder would but lead to bootless slaugh- 
ter, and irretrievable defeat.’’ 

“ Wherefore think you so, my lord ? ” asked Isabel, in 
evident excitement. “ Your own retainers are sixty thou- 
sand : an army larger than Edward, and all his lords of 
yesterday, can bring into the field.” 

“ My child,” answered the earl, with that profound 
knowledge of his countrymen which he had rather ac- 
quired from his English heart, than from any subtlety of 
intellect — “armies may gain a victory, but they do not 
achieve a throne — unless, at least, they enforce a slavery ; 
and it is not for me and for Clarence to be the violent 
conquerors of our countrymen, but the regenerators of a 
free realm, corrupted by a false man’s rule.” 

“And what then,” exclaimed Isabel, — “ what do you 
propose, my father? Can it be possible that you can 
unite yourself with the abhorred Lancastrians— with the 
savage Anjouite, who beheaded my grandsire, Salisbury? 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 259 

Well do I remember your own words — ‘May God and 
St. George forget me, when I forget those grey and gory 
hairs ! ’ 

Here Isabel was interrupted by a faint cry from Anne, 
who, unobserved by the rest, and, hitherto concealed from 
her father^s eye by the deep embrasure of the window, 
bad risen some moments before, and listened, with breath- 
less attention, to the conversation between Warwick and 
the duchess. 

“ It is not true — it is not true I ” exclaimed Anne, pas- 
sionately. “ Margaret disowns the inhuman deed.” 

“Thou art right, Anne,” said Warwick; “though I 
guess not how thou didst learn the error of a report so 
popularly believed, that till of late I never questioned its 
truth. King Louis assures me solemnly, that that foul 
act was done by the butcher Clifford, against Margaret^s 
knowledge, and, when known, to her grief and anger.” 

“And you, who call Edward false, can believe Louis 
true I ” 

“ Cease, Isabel — cease I ” said the countess. “ Is it thus 
my child can address my lord and husband ? Forgive her, 
beloved Richard.” 

“ Such heat in Clarence^s wife misbeseems her not,” 
answered Warwick. “And I can comprehend and pardon 
in my haughty Isabel a resentment which her reason must, 
at last, subdue ; for think not, Isabel, that it is without 
dread struggle and fierce agony that I can contemplate 
peace and league with mine ancient foe ; but here two 
duties speak to me in voices not to be denied : my honor 


260 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

and my hearth, as noble and as man, demand redress — - 
and the weal and glory of my country demand a ruler who 
does not degrade a warrior, nor assail a virgin, nor cor- 
rupt a people by lewd pleasures, nor exhaust a land by 
grinding imposts ; and that honor shall be vindicated, and 
that country shall be righted, no matter at what sacrifice 
of private grief and pride.” 

The words and the tone of the earl for a moment awed 
even Isabel, but after a pause, she said, sullenly, “And 
for this, then, Clarence hath joined your quarrel, and 
shared your exile I — for this, — that he may place the 
eternal barrier of the Lancastrian line between himself 
and the English throne I ” 

“I would fain hope,” answered the earl, calmly, “that 
Clarence will view our hard position more charitably than 
thou. If he gain not all that I could desire, should suc- 
cess crown our arms, he will, at least, gain much ; for 
often and ever did thy husband, Isabel, urge me to stern 
measures against Edward, when I soothed him and re- 
strained. Mort Dieu! how often did he complain of 
slight and insult from Elizabeth and her minions, of open 
affront from Edward, of parsimony to his wants as prince 
— of a life, in short, humbled and made bitter by all the 
indignity and the gall which scornful power can inflict on 
dependent pride. If he gain not the throne, he will gain, 
at least, the succession, in thy right to the baronies of 
Beauchamp, the mighty duchy and the vast heritage of 
York, the vice-royalty of Ireland. Never prince of the 
blood had wealth and honors equal to those that shall 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 261 

await thy lord. For the rest, I drew him not into my 
quarrel — long before, would he have drawn me into his ; 
nor doth it become thee, Isabel, as child and as sister, to 
repent, if the husband of ray daughter felt as brave men 
feel, without calculation of gain and profit, the insult 
offered to his lady^s house. But, if here I over-guage his 
chivalry and love to me and mine, or discontent his am- 
bition and his hopes, Mort Dieu! we hold him not a cap- 
tive. Edward will hail his overtures of peace ; let him 
make terras with his brother, and return.” 

“I will report to him what you say, my lord,” said 
Isabel, with cold brevity ; and, bending her haughty head 
in formal reverence, she advanced to the door. Anne 
sprang forward and caught her hand. 

“Oh, Isabel I” she whispered; “in our father’s sad 
and gloomy hour, can you leave him thus?” — and the 
sweet lady burst into tears. 

“Anne,” retorted Isabel, bitterly, “thy heart is Lan- 
castrian ; and, what, peradventure, grieves my father, 
hath but joy for thee.” 

Anne drew back, pale and trembling, and her sister 
swept from the room. 

The earl, though he had not overheard the whispered 
sentences which passed between his daughters, had 
watched them closely, and his lip quivered with emotion, 
as Isabel closed the door. 

“Come hither, my Anne,” he said tenderly; “thou, 
who hast thy mother’s face, never hast a harsh thought 
for thy father.” 


262 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

As Anne threw herself on Warwick’s breast, he con- 
tinued — “And how earnest thou to learn that Margaret 
disowns a deed that, if done by her command, would 
render my union with her cause a sacrilegious impiety to 
the dead ? ” 

Anne colored, and nestled her head still closer to her 
father’s bosom. Her mother regarded her confusion and 
her silence with an anxious eye. 

The wing of the palace in which the earl’s apartments 
were situated was appropriated to himself and household, 
flanked to the left by an abutting pile containing state- 
chambers, never used by the austere and thrifty Louis, 
except on great occasions of pomp or revel ; and, as we 
have before observed, looking on a garden, — which was 
generally solitary and deserted. From this garden, while 
Anne yet strove for words to answer her father, and the 
countess yet watched her embarrassment, suddenly came 
the soft strain of a Proven9al lute ; while a low voice, 
rich, and modulated at once by a deep feeling and an 
exquisite art that would have given effect to even simpler 
words, breathed 

THE LAY OP THE HEIR OP LANCASTER. 

‘ His birthright but a Father’s name, 

A Grandsire’s hero-sword; 

He dwelt within the Stranger’s land, 

The friendless, homeless Lord! 

“Yet one dear hope, too dear to tell, 

Consoled the exiled man; 

The Angels have their home in Heaven 
And gentle thoughts in Anne.” 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 263 

At that name the voice of the singer trembled, and 
paused a moment; the earl, who at first had scarcely 
listened to what he deemed but the ill-seasoned gallantry 
of one of the royal minstrels, started in proud surprise, 
and Anne herself, tightening her clasp round her father’s 
neck, burst into passionate sobs. The eye of the countess 
met that of her lord, but she put her finger to her lips in 
sign to him to listen. The song was resumed 

“Recall the single sunny time, 

In childhood’s April weather, 

When he and thou, the boy and girl, 

Roved, hand in hand, together; 

“When round thy young companion knelt 
The Princes of the Isle ; — 

The Priest and People pray’d their God, 

On England’s Heir to smile.” 

The earl uttered a half-stifled exclamation, but the 
miD^trel heard not the interruption, and continued 

“Methinks the sun hath never smiled 
Upon the exiled man. 

Like that bright morning when the boy 
Told all his soul to Anne. 

“No; while his birthright but a name, 

A Grandsire’s horo-sword, 

He would not woo the lofty maid 
To love the banish’d lord. 

But when, with clarion, fife, and drum, 

He claims and wins his own; 

When o’er the Deluge drifts his Ark, 

To rest upon a throne — 


261 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


“Then, wilt thou deign to hear the hope 
That bless’d the exiled man, 

When pining for his Father’s crown 
To deck the brows of Anne ! ” 

The song ceased, and there was silence within the 
chamber, broken but by Anne’s low, yet passionate weep- 
ing. The earl gently strove to disengage her arms from 
his neck, but she, mistaking his intention, sank on her 
knees, and covering her face with her hands, exclaimed — 

“Pardon! — pardon I — pardon him, if not me!” 

“ What have I to pardon ? What hast thou concealed 
from me ? Can I think that thou hast met, in secret, one 
who ” 

“ In secret ! Never — never, father ! This is the third 
time only that I have heard his voice since we have been 
at Amboise, save when — save when 

“Go on.’^ 

“ Save when King Louis presented him to me in the 

revel, under the name of the Count de F , and he 

asked me if I could forgive his mother for Lord Clifford’s 
Mme.” 

“ It is, then, as the rhyme proclaimed ; and it is Edward 
of Lancaster who loves and wooes the daughter of Lord 
Warwick ! ” 

Something in her father’s voice made Anne remove her 
hands from her face, and look up to him with a thrill of 
timid joy. Upon his brow, indeed, frowned no anger — 
upon his lip smiled no scorn. At that moment all his 
haughty grief at the curse of circumstance, which drove 
him to his hereditary foe, had vanished. Though Mon- 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 265 

tagu had obtained from Oxford some glimpse of the desire 
which the more sagacious and temperate Lancastrians 
already entertained for that alliance, and though Louis 
had already hinted its expediency to the earl, yet, till 
now, Warwick himself had naturally conceived that the 
prince shared the enmity of his mother, and that such an 
union, however politic, was impossible ; but now, indeed, 
there burst upon him the full triumph of revenge and 
pride. Edward of York dared to woo Anne to dishonor 
— Edward of Lancaster dared not even woo her as his 
wife till his crown was won I To place upon the throne 
the very daughter the ungrateful monarch had insulted 
— to make her he would have humbled not only the instru- 
ment of his fall, but the successor of his purple — to unite 
in one glorious strife, the wrongs of the man and the 
pride of the father, — these were the thoughts that sparkled 
in the eye of the king-maker, and flushed with a fierce 
rapture the dark cheek, already hollowed by passion and 
care. He raised his daughter from the floor, and placed 
her in her mother’s arms, but still spoke not. 

“ This, then, was thy secret, Anne ; ” whispered the 
countess, “ and I half foreguessed it, when, last night, 1 
knelt beside thy couch to pray, and overheard thee murmur 
in thy dreams.” 

Sweet mother, thou forgivest me; but my father — 
ah, he speaks not ! — One word ! Father, father, not even 
his love could console me if I angered thee P'’ 

The earl, who had remained rooted to the spot, his 
eyes shining thoughtfully under his dark brows, and his 
11—23 


266 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


hand slightly raised, as if piercing into the future, and 
mapping out its airy realm, turned quickly — 

“ I go to the heir of Lancaster ; if this boy be bold 
and true — worthy of England and of thee — we will 
change the sad ditty of that scrannel lute into such a 
storm of trumpets as beseems the triumph of a conqueror, 
and the marriage of a prince ! ” 


CHAPTER Till. 

How the Heir of Lancaster meets the King-Maker. 

In truth, the young prince, in obedience to a secret 
message from the artful Louis, had repaired to the court 

of Ainboise under the name of the Count de E . 

The French king had long before made himself acquainted 
with Prince Edward’s romantic attachment to the earl’s 
daughter, through the agent employed by Edward to 
transmit his portrait to Anne at Rouen ; and from him, 
probably, came to Oxford the suggestion which that 
nobleman had hazarded to Montagu ; and now that it 
became his policy seriously and earnestly to espouse the 
cause of his kinswoman Margaret, he saw all the advan- 
tage to his cold state-craft, which could be drawn from a 
boyish love. Louis had a well-founded fear of the war- 
like spirit and military talents of Edward lY. ; and this 
fear had induced him hitherto to refrain from openly 
espousing the cause of the Lancastrians, though it did 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 267 

not prevent his abetting such seditions and intrigues as 
could confine the attention of the martial Plantagenet to 
the perils of his own realm. But now that the breach 
between Warwick and the king had taken place — now 
that the earl could no longer curb the desire of the 
Yorkist monarch to advance his hereditary claims to the 
fairest provinces of France — nay, peradventure, to France 
itself, while the defection of Lord Warwick gave to the 
Lancastrians the first fair hope of success in urging their 
own pretensions to the English throne — he bent all the 
powers of his intellect and his will towards the resto- 
ration of a natural ally, and the downfall of a dangerous 
foe. But he knew that Margaret and her Lancastrian 
favorers could not of themselves suffice to achieve a revo- 
lution — that they could only succeed under cover of the 
popularity and the power of Warwick, while he perceived 
all the art it would require to make Margaret forego her 
vindictive nature and long resentment, and to supple the 
pride of the great earl into recognizing, as a sovereign, 
the woman who had branded him as a traitor. 

Long before Lord Oxford’s arrival, Louis, with all 
that address which belonged to him, had gradually pre- 
pared the earl to familiarize himself to the only alter- 
native before him, save that, indeed, of powerless sense 
of wrong, and obscure and lasting exile. The French 
king looked with more uneasiness to the scruples of 
Margaret; and to remove these, he trusted less to his 
own skill, than to her love for her only son. 

His youth passed principally in Anjou — that court 


268 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


of minstrels — young Edward’s gallant and ardent temper 
had become deeply imbued with the southern poetry and 
romance. Perhaps, the very feud between his house and 
Lord Warwick’s, though both claimed their common de- 
scent from John of Gaunt, had tended, by the contradic- 
tions in the human heart, to endear to him the recollection 
of the gentle Anne. He obeyed with joy the summons 
of Louis, repaired to the court, was presented to Anne 

as the Count de F , found himself recognized at the 

first glance (for his portrait still lay upon her heart, as 
his remembrance in its core), and, twice before the song 
we have recited, had ventured, agreeably to the sweet 
customs of Anjou, to address the lady of his love, under 
the shade of the star-lit and summer copses. But, on this 
last occasion^ he had departed from his former discretion ; 
hitherto he had selected an hour of deeper night, and 
ventured but beneath the lattice of the maiden’s chamber 
when the rest of the palace was hushed in sleep. And 
the fearless declaration of his rank and love now hazarded, 
was prompted by one who contrived to turn to grave uses 
the wildest whim of the minstrel, the most romantic en- 
thusiasm of youth. 

Louis had just learned from Oxford the result of his 
interview with Warwick. And about the same time the 
French king had received a letter from Margaret, an- 
nouncing her departure from the Castle of Verdun for 
Tours, where she prayed him to meet her forthwith, and 
stating that she had received from England tidings that 
miglit change all her schemes, and more than ever forbid 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 2&)3 

the possibility of a reconciliation with the Earl of 
W arwick. 

The king perceived the necessity of calling into im- 
mediate effect the aid on which he had relied, in the pre- 
sence and passion of the young prince. He sought him 
at once — he found him in a remote part of the gardens, 
and overheard him breathing to himself the lay he had 
just composed. 

Basque Dieu!’^ said the king, laying his hand on 
the young man’s shoulder— “if thou wilt but repeat that 
song where and when I bid thee, I promise that before 
the month ends Lord Warwick shall pledge thee his 
daughter’s hand ; and before the year is closed thou shalt 
sit beside Lord Warwick’s daughter in the halls of West- 
minster.” 

And the royal troubadour took the counsel of the king. 

The song had ceased j the minstrel emerged from the 
bosquets, and stood upon the sward, as, from the postern 
of the palace, walked with a slow step, a form from which 
it became him not, as prince or as lover, in peace or in 
war, to shrink. The first stars had now risen ; the light, 

though serene, was pale and dim. The two men the 

one advancing, the other motionless — gazed on each other 

in grave silence. As Count de F , amidst the young 

nobles in the king’s train, the earl had scarcely noticed 
the heir of England. He viewed him now with a diffe- 
rent eye; — in secret complacency, for, with a soldier’s 
weakness, the soldier-baron valued men too much for 
their outward seeming, — he surveyed a figure already 
23 * 2z 


270 VHE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

masculine and stalwart, though still in the graceful 
symmetry of fair eighteen. 

“A youth of a goodly presence,’^ muttered the earl, 
“ with the dignity that commands in peace, and the sinews 
that can strive against hardship and death in war.’^ 

He approached, and said, calmly — “Sir minstrel, ne 
who wooes either fame or beauty may love the lute, but 
should wield the sword. At least, so methinks, had the 
Fifth Henry said to him who boasts for his heritage the 
sword of Agincourt.’^ 

“ O noble earl I ” exclaimed the prince, touched by 
words far gentler than he had dared to hope, despite his 
bold and steadfast mien, and giving way to frank and 
graceful emotion — “0 noble earl I since thou knowest 
me — since my secret is told — since, in that secret, I have 
proclaimed a hope as dear to me as a crown, and dearer 
far than life, can I hope that thy rebuke but veils thy 
favor, and that, under Lord Warwick’s eye, the grandson 
of Henry Y. shall approve himself worthy of the blood 
that kindles in his veins ? ” 

“ Fair sir and prince,” returned the earl, whose hardy 
and generous nature the emotion and fire of Edward 
warmed and charmed, “ there are, alas 1 deep memories 
of blood and wrong — the sad deeds and wrathful words 
of party feud and civil war, between thy royal mother 
and myself; and though we may unite now against a 
common foe, much 1 fear that the Lady Margaret would 
brook ill a closer friendship, a nearer tie, than the exi- 
gency of the hour, between Richard Nevile and her son.” 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 271 

“No, sir earl; let me hope you misthink her. Hot 
and impetuous, but not mean and treacherous, the moment 
that she accepts the service of thine arm she must forger 
that thou hast been her foe ; and if I, as my father’s 
heir, return to England, it is in the trust that a new era 
will commence. Free from the passionate enmities of 
either faction, Yorkist and Lancastrian are but English- 
men to me. Justice to all who serve us — pardon for all 
who have opposed.” 

The prince paused, and, even in the dim light, his 
kingly aspect gave effect to his kingly words. “And if 
this resolve be such as you approve — if you, great earl, 
be that which even your foes proclaim, a man whose 
power depends less on lands and vassals — broad though 
the one, and numerous though the other — than on well- 
known love for England, her glory, and her peace, it rests 
with you to bury for ever in one grave the feuds of Lan- 
caster and York I What Yorkist, who hath fought at 
Towton or St. Alban’s under Lord Warwick’s standard, 
will lift sword against the husband of Lord Warwick’s 
daughter? what Lancastrian will not forgive a Yorkist, 
when Lord Warwick, the kinsman of Duke Richard, be- 
comes father to the Lancastrian heir, and bulwark to the 
Lancastrian throne ? Oh, Warwick, if not for my sake, 
nor for the sake of full redress against the ingrate whom 
thou repentest to have placed on my father’s throne, at 
least for the sake of England — for the healing of her 
bleeding wounds — for the union of her divided people, 


272 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

hear the grandson of Henry V., who sues to thee for thy 
daughter’s hand I ” 

The royal wooer bent his knee as he spoke — the mighty 
subject saw and prevented the impulse of the prince who 
had forgotten himself in the lover ; the hand which he 
caught he lifted to his lips, and the next moment, in 
manly and soldier-like embrace, the prince’s young arm 
was thrown over the broad shoulder of the king-maker. 


CHAPTER IX. 

The Interview of Eai'l Warwick and Queen Margaret. 

Louis hastened to meet Margaret at Tours ; thithei 
came also, her father Rene, her brother John of Calabria, 
Yolante her sister, and the Count of Yaudemonte. The 
meeting between the queen and Rene was so touching as 
to have drawn tears to the hard eyes of Louis XI. ; but, 
that emotion over, Margaret evinced how little affliction 
had humbled her high spirit, or softened her angry pas- 
sions : she interrupted Louis in every argument for 
reconciliation with Warwick. “Not with honor to my- 
self, and to my son,” she exclaimed, “can I pardon that 
cruel earl — the main cause of King Henry’s downfall ! in 
vain patch up a hollow peace between us — a peace of 
form and parchment 1 My spirit never can be contented 
with him, ne pardon ! ” 

For several days she maintained a language which 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 2t3 

betrayed the chief cause of her impolitic passions, thal 
had lost her crown. Showing to Louis the letter des- 
patched to her, proffering the hand of the Lady Eliza- 
beth to her son, she asked “if that were not a more 
profitable party.”* and, “if it were necessary that she 
should forgive — whether it were not more queenly to treat 
with Edward than with a twofold rebel?” 

In fact, the queen would, perhaps, have fallen into 
Gloucester’s artful snare, despite all the arguments and 
even the half-menaces f of the more penetrating Louis, 
but for a counteracting influence which Richard had not 
reckoned upon. Prince Edward, who had lingered 
behind Louis, arrived from Araboise, and his persuasions 
did more than all the representations of the crafty king. 
The queen loved her son with that intenseness which 
characterizes the one soft affection of violent natures. 
Never had she yet opposed his most childish whim, and 
now he spoke with the eloquence of one, who put his 
heart and his life’s life into his words. At last, reluctantly, 
she consented to an interview with Warwick. The earl, 
accompanied by Oxford, arrived at Tours, and the two 

* See, for this curious passage of secret history, Sir H. Ellis’s 
“ Original Letters from the Harleian MSS.” second series, vol. i., 
letter 42. 

f Louis would have thrown over Margaret’s cause, if Warwick 
had demanded it; he instructed MM. de Concressault, and Du 
Plessis to assure the earl that he would aid him to the utmost to 
reconquer England either for the Queen Margaret or for any one 
else he chose (ou pour qui il voudra) ; for that he loved the earl 
better than Margaret or her son. — Brante, t. ix. 276. 

8 


274 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

nobles were led into the presence of Margaret by King 
Louis. 

The reader will picture to himself a room darkened by 
thick curtains drawn across the casement, for the proud 
woman wished not the earl to detect on her face either 
the ravages of years, or the emotions of offended pride. 
In a throne chair, placed on the dais, sate the motionless 
queen, her hands clasping, convulsively, the arms of the 
fauteuil, her features pale and rigid ; — and behind the 
chair leant the graceful figure of her son. The person 
of the Lancastrian prince was little less remarkable than 
that of his hostile namesake, but its character was dis- 
tinctly different.* Spare, like Henry Y., almost to the 
manly defect of leanness, his proportions were slight to 
those which gave such portly majesty to the vast-chested 
Edward, but they evinced the promise of almost equal 
strength ; the muscles hardened to iron by early exercise 
in arms, the sap of youth never wasted by riot and de- 
bauch : his short purple manteline trimmed with ermine, 
was embroidered with his grandfather’s favorite device, 
“the silver swan” — he wore on his breast the badge of 
St. George, and the single ostrich plume, which made his 
cognizance as Prince of Wales, waved over a fair and 
ample forehead, on which were, even then, traced the 
lines of musing thought and high design ; his chestnut 


* “According to some of the French chroniclers, the Prince of 
Wales, who was one of the handsomest and most accomplished 
princes in Europe, was very desirous of becoming the husband of 
Anne Nevile,” &c . — Miss Strickland, “ Life of Margaret of Anjou.” 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


275 


hair curled close to his noble head, his eye shone dark 
and brilliant, beneath the deep-set brow, which gives to 
the human countenance such expression of energy ana 
intellect — all about him, in aspect and mien, seemed to 
betoken a mind riper than his years, a roasculine sim- 
plicity of taste and bearing, the earnest and grave tem- 
perament, mostly allied, in youth, to pure and elevated 
desires, to an honorable and chivalric soul. 

Below the dais stood some of the tried and gallant 
gentlemen who had braved exile, and tasted penury in 
their devotion to the House of Lancaster, and who had 
now flocked once more round their queen, in the hope of 
better days. There, were the Dukes of Exeter and 
Somerset — their very garments soiled and threadbare — 
many a day had those great lords hungered for the 
beggar’s crust 1* There, stood Sir John Fortescue, the 
patriarch authority of our laws, who had composed his 
famous treatise for the benefit of the young prince, over- 
fond of exercise with lance and brand, and the recreation 
of knightly song. There, were Jasper of Pembroke, and 
Sir Henry Rous, and the Earl of Devon, and the Knight 
of Lytton, whose house had followed, from sire to son, 
the fortunes of the Lancastrian Rose ; f and, contrasting 

* Philip de Comines says he himself had seen the Dukes of 
Exeter and Somerset in the Low Countries in as wretched a plight 
as common beggars. 

f Sir Robert de Lytton (whose grandfather had been Comptroller 
to the Household of Henry IV., and Agister of the Forests allotted 
to Queen Joan), was one of the most powerful knights of the time; 
n}id afterwards, according to Perkin Warbeck, oue of the ministers 


276 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


the sober garments of the exiles, shone the jewels and 
cloth of gold that decked the persons of the more pros- 
perous foreigners, Ferri, Count of Yaudemonte, Marga- 
ret’s brother, the Duke of Calabria, and the powerful 
form of Sir Pierre de Breze, who had accompanied Mar- 
garet in her last disastrous campaigns, with all the devo- 
tion of a chevalier for the lofty lady adored in secret.* 

When the door opened, and gave to the eyes of those 
proud exiles the form of their puissant enemy, they with 
difficulty suppressed the murmur of their resentment, and 
their looks turned with sympathy and grief to the hueless 
face of their queen. 

The earl himself was troubled — his step was less firm, 
his crest less haughty, his eye less serenely steadfast. 

But beside him, in a dress more homely than that of 
the poorest exile there, and in garb and in aspect, as he 
lives for ever in the portraiture of Victor Hugo and our 
own yet greater Scott, moved Louis, popularly called 
“The Fell.” 

“ Madame and cousin,’^ said the king, “ we present to 
you the man for whose haute courage and dread fame we 
have such love and respect, that we value him as much as 

most trusted by Henry VII. He was Lord of Lytton, in Derby- 
shire (where his ancestors had been settled since the Conquest), 
of Knebworth in Herts (the ancient seat and manor of Plantagenet 
de Brotherton, Earl of Norfolk and Earl-Marshal), of Myndelesden 
and Langley, of Standyarn, Dene, and Brekesborne, in Northamp- 
tonshire, and became, in the reign of Henry VTI., Privy-Councillor, 
Under-Treasurer, and Keeper of the great Wardrobe. 

* See for the chivalrous devotion of this knight (Seneschal of 
Normandy) to Margaret — Miss Strickland’s Life of that Queen 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 277 

any king, and would do as much for him as for man livino- 
and with my lord of Warwick, see also this noble Earl 
of Oxford, who, though he may have sided awhile with 
the enemies of your highness, comes now to pray your 
pardon, and to lay at your feet his sword.” 

Lord Oxford (who had ever unwillingly acquiesced in 
the Yorkist dynasty) — more prompt than Warwick, here 
threw himself on his knees before Margaret, and his tears 
fell on her hand, as he murmured “Pardon.” 

“Rise, Sir John de Yere,” said the queen, glancing, 
with a flashing eye, from Oxford to Lord Warwick. 
“ Your pardon is right easy to purchase, for well I know 
that you yielded but to the time — you did not turn the 
time against us — you and yours have suffered much for 
King Henry’s cause. Rise, Sir Earl.” 

“And,” said a voice, so deep and so solemn, that it 
hushed the very breath of those who heard it, — “and 
has Margaret a pardon also for the man who did more 
than all others to dethrone King Henry, and can do more 
than all to restore his crown?” 

“ Ha I ” cried Margaret, rising in her passion, and 
casting from her the hand her son had placed upon her 
shoulder — “Ha I Ownest thou thy wrongs, proud lord ? 
Coraest thou at last to kneel at Queen Margaret’s feet ? 
Look round and behold her court — some half-score brave 
and unhappy gentlemen, driven from their hearths and 
homes — their heritage the prey of knaves and varlets — 


* Ellis’s “Original Letters,” vol. i., letter 42, second series. 
]I.— 24 


2T8 THE LAST OF THE BARON§, 

their sovereign in a prison — their sovereign’s wife, their 
sovereign’s son, persecuted and hunted from the soil I 
And comest thou now to the forlorn majesty of sorrow 
to boast — ‘Such deeds were mine?’” 

“ Mother and lady,” began the prince — 

“ Madden me not, my son I Forgiveness is for the 
prosperous, not for adversity and woe.” 

“Hear me,” said the earl, — who, having once bowed 
his pride to the interview, had steeled himself against the 
passion which, in his heart, he somewhat despised as. a 
mere woman’s burst of inconsiderate fury — “for I have 
this right to be heard — that not one of these knights, 
your lealest and noblest friends, can say of me, that I ever 
stooped to gloss mine acts, or palliate bold deeds with 
wily words. Dear to me as comrade in arms — sacred to 
me as a father’s head, was Richard of York, mine uncle 
by marriage with Lord Salisbury’s sister. I speak not 
now of his claims by descent, (for those even King Henry 
could not deny), but I maintain them, even in your grace’s 
presence, to be such as vindicate, from disloyalty and 
treason, me and the many true and gallant men who up- 
held them through danger, by field and scaffold. Error, 
it might be — but the error of men who believed them- 
selves the defenders of a just cause. Nor did I, Queen 
Margaret, lend myself wholly to my kinsman’s quarrel, 
nor share one scheme that went to the dethronement of 
King Henry, until — pardon, if I speak bluntly ; it is my 
wont, and would be more so now, but for thy fair face 
and woman's form, which awe me more than if confronting 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 279 

the frown of Cceur de Lion, or the First great Edward — 
pardon me, I say, if I speak bluntly, and aver, that I was 
not King Henry’s foe until false counsellors had planned 
my destruction, in body and goods, land and life. In the 
midst of peace, at Coventry, my father and myself scarcely 
escaped the knife of the murderer.* In the streets of 
London, the very menials and hangmen employed in the 
service of your highness beset me unarmed ; f a little 
time after, and my name was attainted by an illegal Par- 
liament. J And not till after these things did Richard 
Duke of York ride to the Hall of Westminster, and lay 
his hand upon the throne ; nor till after these things did 
I and my father Salisbury say to each other, ‘ The time 
has come when neither peace nor honor can be found for 
us under King Henry’s reign.’ Blame me, if you will, 
Queen Margaret; reject me, if you need not ray sword; 
but that which I did in the gone days was such as no 
nobleman so outraged and dei^paired,^ would have for- 
borne to do ; — remembering that England is not the 
heritage of the king alone, but that safety and honor, 
and freedom and justice, are the rights of his Norman 
gentlemen, and his Saxon people. And rights are a 
mockery and a laughter if they do not justify resistance, 

^ See Hall (286), who says that Margaret had laid a snare for 
Salisbury and Warwick, at Warwick, and “if they had not sud- 
denly departed, their life’s thread had been broken.” 

+ Hall, Fabyan. J “Pari. Rolls,” 370; W. Wj’r, 478. 

g Warwick’s phrase: — See Sir H. Ellis’s “Original Letters,” 
vol. i., second series. 


280 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

whensoever, and by whomsoever, they are invaded and 
assailed.” 

It had been with a violent effort that Margaret had 
refrained from interrupting this address, which had, how- 
ever, produced no inconsiderable effect upon the knightly 
listeners around the dais. And now, as the earl ceased, 
her indignation was arrested by dismay on seeing the 
young prince suddenly leave his post and advance to the 
side of Warwick. 

“ Right well hast thou spoken, noble earl and cousin — 
right well, though right plainly. And I,” added the 
prince, “saving the presence of my queen and mother — 
I, the representative of my sovereign father, in his name 
will pledge thee a king’s oblivion and pardon for the 
past, if thou, on thy side, acquit my princely mother of 
all privity to the snares against thy life- and honor of 
which thou hast spoken, and give thy knightly word to 
be henceforth leal to Lancaster. Perish all memories of 
the past that can make walls between the souls of brave 
men ! ” 

Till this moment, his arras folded in his gown, his thin, 
fox-like face bent to the ground, Louis had listened, silent 
and undisturbed. He now deemed it the moment to 
second the appeal of the prince. Passing his hand 
hypocritically over his tearless eyes, the king turned to 
Margaret, and said — 

“Joyful hour! — happy union I — May Madame La 
Vierge and Monseigneur St. Martin sanctify and hallow 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


281 


the bond by which alone my beloved kinswoman can 
regain her rights and roiaulme. Amen.” 

Unheeding this pious ejaculation, her bosom heaving, 
her eyes wandering from the earl to Edward, Margaret 
at last gave vent to her passion. 

“And is it come to this, Prince Edward of Wales, that 
thy mother’s wrongs are not thine? Standest thou side 
by side with my mortal foe, who, instead of repenting 
treason, dares but to complain of injury? Am I fallen 
so low that my voice to pardon or disdain is counted but 
as a sough of idle ^air ! God of my fathers, hear me I 
Willingly from my heart I tear the last thought and care 
for the pomps of earth. Hateful to me a crown for 
which the wearer must cringe to enemy and rebel ! Away, 
Earl Warwick ! Monstrous and unnatural seems it to 
the wife of captive Henry to see thee by the side of 
Henry’s son ! ” 

Every eye turned in fear to the aspect of the earl, 
every ear listened for the answer which might be expected 
from his well-known heat and pride — an answer to de- 
stroy for ever the last hope of the Lancastrian line. But 
whether it was the very consciousness of his power to 
raise or to crush that fiery speaker, or those feelings 
natural to brave men, half of chivalry, half contempt, 
which kept down the natural anger by thoughts of the 
sex and sorrows of the Anjouite, or that the wonted 
irascibility of his temper had melted into one steady and 
profound passion of revenge against Edward of York, 
which absorbed all lesser and more trivial causes of 
24 * 


2B2 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


resentment — the earl’s face, though pale as the dead, was 
unmoved and calm, and, with a grave and melancholy 
smile, he answered — 

“ More do I respect thee, 0 queen, for the hot words 
which show a truth rarely heard from royal lips, than 
hadst thou deigned to dissimulate the forgiveness and 
kindly charity, which sharp remembrance permits thee 
not to feel ! No, princely Margaret, not yet can there 
be frank amity between thee and me 1 Nor do I boast 
the affection yon gallant gentlemen have displayed. 
Frankly, as thou hast spoken, do I say, that the wrongs 
I have suffered from another alone move me to allegiance 
to thyself 1 Let others serve thee for love of Henry — 
reject not my service, given but for revenge on Edward 
. — as much, henceforth, am I his foe as formerly his friend 
and maker ! * And if, hereafter, on the throne, thou 
shouldst remember and resent the former wars, at least, 
thou hast owed me no gratitude, and thou canst not 
grieve my heart, and seethe ray brain, as the man whom I 
once loved better than a son ! Thus, from thy presence 
I depart, chafing not at thy scornful wrath — mindful, 
young prince, but of thy just and gentle heart, and sure, 
in the calm of my own soul (on which this much, at 
least, of our destiny is reflected as on a glass), that when, 
high lady, thy colder sense returns to thee, thou wilt see 
that the league between us must be made I — that thine 
ire, as woman, must fade before thy duties as a mother, 
thy affection as a wife, and thy paramount and solemn 


* Sir H. Ellis’s “Oj-iginal Letters,” vol. i., second series. 


THE LAST OF THE BaRONs. 283 

obligations to the people thou hast ruled as queen I In 
the dead of night, thou shalt hear the voice of Henry, 
in his prison, asking Margaret to set him free ! The 
vision of thy son shall rise before thee in his bloom and 
promise, to demand, ‘ Why his mother deprives him of a 
crown ? ’ and crowds of pale peasants, grinded beneath 
tyrannous exaction, and despairing fathers mourning for 
dishonored children, shall ask the Christian queen, ‘ If 
God will sanction the unreasoning wrath which rejects 
the only instrument that can redress her people 

This said, the earl bowed his head and turned ; J3ut, 
at the first sign of his departure, there was a general 
movement among the noble by-standers : impressed by 
the dignity of his bearing, by the greatness of his power, 
and by the unquestionable truth that in rejecting him, 
Margaret cast away the heritage of her son — the exiles, 
with a common impulse, threw themselves at their queen’s 

feet, and exclaimed, almost in the same words 

“ Grace I noble queen ! — Grace for the great Lord 
Warwick ! ” 

“My sister,” whispered John of Calabria, “thou art 
thy son’s ruin if the earl depart ! ” 

^'Basque Dieu! Yex not my kinswoman. — If she 
prefer a convent to a throne, cross not the holy choice ! ” 
said the wily Louis, with a mocking irony on his pinched 
lips. 

The prince alone spoke not, but stood proudly on the 
same spot, gazing on the earl, as he slowly moved to the 
door. 


284 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

“Oh, Edward — Edward, my son!’’ exclaimed the 
unhappy Margaret, “if for thy sake — for thine — I must 
make the past a blank — speak thou for me.” 

“ I have spoken,” said the prince, gently, “ and thou 
didst chide me, noble mother ; yet I spoke, methinks, as 
Henry Y. had done, if of a mighty enemy he had had 
the power to make a noble friend.” 

A short, convulsive sob was heard from the throne 
chair ; and as suddenly as it burst, it ceased. Queen 
Margaret rose — not a trace of that stormy emotion upon 
the^^rand and marble beauty of her face. Her voice, 
unnaturally calm, arrested the steps of the departing 
earl. 

“Lord Warwick, defend this boy — restore his rights 
— release his sainted father — and for years of anguish 
and of exile, Margaret of Anjou forgives the champion 
of her son ! ” 

In an instant, Prince Edward was again by the earl’s 
side — a moment more, and the earl’s proud knee bent in 
homage to the queen — joyful tears were in the eyes of 
her friends and kindred — a triumphant smile on the lips 
of Louis — and Margaret’s face, terrible in its stony and 
locked repose, was raised abo\e, as if asking the All- 
Merciful pardon— /or the pardon which the human sinner 
had bestowed ! * 


* Ellis’s “Original Letters from the Harleian MSS.,” letter 42. 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


285 


CHAPTER X. 

Love and Marriage — Doubts of Conscience — Domestic Jealousy — 
and Household Treason. 

The events that followed this tempestuous interview 
were such as the position of the parties necessarily com- 
pelled. The craft of Louis — the energy and love of 
Prince Edward — the representations of all her kindred 
and friends, conquered, though not without repeated 
struggles, Margaret’s repugnance to a nearer union be- 
tween Warwick and her son. The earl did not deign to 
appear personally in this matter. He left it, as became 
him, to Louis and the prince, and finally received from 
them the proposals, which ratified the league, and con- 
summated the schemes of his revenge. 

Upon the Yery Cross* in St. Mary’s Church of Angers, 
Lord Warwick swore without change to hold the party 
of King Henry. Before the same sacred symbol. King 
Louis and his brother, Duke of Guienne, robed in can- 
vass, swore to sustain to their utmost the Earl of War- 
wick in behalf of King Henry ; and Margaret recorded 
her oath “ to treat the earl as true and faithful, and never 
for deeds past to make him any reproach.” 

* Miss Strickland observes upon this interview — “It does not 
appear that Warwick mentioned the execution of his father, the 
Earl of Salisbury, which is almost a confirmation of the statements 
of those historians who deny that he was beheaded by Margaret ” 


286 THE LAST OF THE BARONS, 

Theu were signed the articles of marriage between 
Prince Edward and the Lady Anne — the latter to remain 
with Margaret, but the marriage not to be consummated 
“till Lord Warwick had entered England and regained 
the realm, or most part, for King Henry” — a condition 
which pleased the earl, who desired to award his beloved 
daughter no less a dowry than a crown. 

An article far more important than all to the safety of 
the earl, and to the permanent success of the enterprise, 
was one that virtually took from the fierce and unpopular 
Margaret the reins of government, by constituting Prince 
Edward (whose qualities endeared him more and more to 
Warwick, and were such as promised to command the 
respect and love of the people) sole regent of all the 
realm, upon attaining his majority. For the Duke of 
Clarence were reserved all the lands and dignities of the 
duchy of York, the right to the succession of the throne 
to him and his posterity — failing male heirs to the Prince 
of Wales — with a private pledge of the vice-royalty of 
Ireland. 

Margaret had attached to her consent one condition 
highly obnoxious to her high-spirited son, and to which 
he was only reconciled by the arguments of Warwick : she 
stipulated that he should not accompany the earl to Eng- 
land, nor appear there till his father was proclaimed king. 
In this, no doubt, she was guided by maternal fears and 
by some undeclared suspicion, either of the good faith 
of Warwick, or of his means to raise a sufficient army to 
fulfil his promise. The brave prince wished to be himself 


the last op the barons. 28 Y 

foremost in the battles fought in his right and for his 
cause. But the earl contended, to the surprise and joy 
of Margaret, that it best behoved the prince’s interests 
to enter England without one enemy in the field, leaving 
others to clear his path, free himself from all the personal 
hate of hostile factions, and without a drop of blood upon 
the sword of one heralded and announced as the peace- 
maker and impartial reconciler of all feuds. So then 
(these high conditions settled), in the presence of the 
Kings Rene and Louis, of the Earl and Countess of 
Warwick, and in solemn state, at Amboise, Edward of 
Lancaster plighted his marriage troth to his beloved and 
loving Anne. 

It was deep night — and high revel in the Palace of 
Amboise crowned the ceremonies of that memorable day. 
The Earl of Warwick stood alone in the same chamber 
in which he had first discovered the secret of the young 
Lancastrian. From the brilliant company assembled in 
the halls of state, he had stolen unperceived away, for 
his great heart was full to overflowing. The part he had 
played for many days was over, and with it the excite- 
ment and the fever. His schemes were crowned ; — the 
Lancastrians were won to his revenge; — the king’s heir 
was the betrothed of his favorite child; — and the hour 
was visible in the distance, when, by the retribution most 
to be desired, the father’s hand should lead that child to 
the throne of him who would have degraded her to the 
dust. If victory awaited his sanguine hopes, as father 
to his future queen, the dignity and power of the earl 


288 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


became greater in the court of Lancaster than, even in 
his palmiest day, amidst the minions of ungrateful York ; 
the sire of two lines — if Anne’s posterity should fail, the 
crown would pass to the sons of Isabel, — in either case, 
from him (if successful in his invasion) would descend the 
royalty of England. Ambition, pride, revenge, might 
well exult in viewing the future, as mortal wisdom could 
discern it. The house of Nevile never seemed brightened 
by a more glorious star ; and yet the earl was heavy and 
sad at heart. However he had concealed it from the eyes 
of others, the haughty ire of Margaret must have galled 
him in his deepest soul. And even, as he had that day 
contemplated the holy happiness in the face of Anne, a 
sharp pang had shot through his breast. Were those the 
witnesses of fair-omened spousailles ? How different from 
the hearty greeting of his warrior-friends, was the mea- 
sured courtesy of foes, who had felt and fled before his 
sword I If aught chanced to him, in the hazard of the 
field, what thought for his child could ever speak in pity 
from the hard and scornful eyes of the imperious Anjouite.I 
The mist which till then had clouded his mind, or left 
visible to his gaze but one stern idea of retribution, 
melted into air. He beheld the fearful crisis to which 
his life had passed — he had reached the eminence to 
mourn the happy gardens left behind. Gone, for ever 
gone, the old endearing friendships — the sweet and manly 
remembrances of brave companionship and early love 1 
Who among those who had confronted war by his side, 
for the house of York, would hasten to clasp his hand 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS, 2b9 

and hail his coming, as the captain of hated Lancaster ? 
True, could he bow his honor to proclaim the true cause 
of his desertion, the heart of every father would beat in 
sympathy with his ; but less than ever could the tale that 
vindicated his name be told. How stoop to invoke ma- 
lignant pity to the insult offered to a future queen I Dark 
in his grave must rest the secret no words could syllable, 
save by such vague and mysterious hint and comment as 
pass from baseless gossip into dubious history.* True, 
that in his change of party he was not, like Julian of 
Spain, an apostate to his native land. He did not medi- 
tate the subversion of his country by the foreign foe, it 
was but the substitution of one English monarch for an- 
other — a virtuous prince for a false and a sanguinary 
king. True, that the change from rose to rose had been 
so common amongst the greatest and the bravest, that 
even the most rigid could scarcely censure what the age 
itself had sanctioned. But what other man of his stormy 
day had been so conspicuous in the downfall of those he 
was now as conspicuously to raise ? What other man 
had Richard of York taken so dearly to his heart — to 
what other man had the august father said — “Protect 
my sons?” Before him seemed literally to rise the 
phantom of that honored prince, and with clay-cold lips 
to ask — “Art thou, of all the world, the doomsman of 
my first-born ?” A groan escaped the breast of the self- 

* Hall well explains the mystery which wrapped the king’s insult 
to a female of the House of Warwick, by the simple sentence, “the 
certainty was not, for both their honors openly known ! ” 

II. — 25 


T 


290 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

tormentor, he fell on his knees and prayed — “ O, pardon, 
thou All-seeing ! — plead for me, Divine Mother ! if in this 
I have darkly erred, taking my heart for my conscience^ 
and mindful only of a selfish wrong ! Oh, surely, no ! 
Had Richard of York himself lived to know what I have 
suffered from his unworthy son — causeless insult, broken 
faith, public and unabashed dishonor; — yea, pardoning, 
serving, loving on through all, till, at the last, nothing 
less than the foulest taint that can light upon ^scutcheon 
and name was the cold, premeditated reward foi^ untired 
devotion — surely, surely, Richard himself had said — ‘ Thy 
honor, at last, forbids all pardon 1 ’ ” 

Then, in that rapidity with which the human heart, 
once seizing upon self-excuse, reviews, one after one, the 
fair apologies, the earl passed from the injury to himself 
to the mal-government of his land, and muttered over the 
thousand instances of cruelty and misrule which rose to 
his remembrance — forgetting, alas, or steeling himself to 
the memory, that till Edward’s vices had assailed his own 
hearth and honor, he had been contented with lamenting 
them, — he had not ventured to chastise. At length, calm 
and self-acquitted, he rose from his self-confession, and 
leaning by the open casement, drank in the reviving and 
gentle balm of the summer air. The state apartments he 
had left, formed, as we have before observed, an angle to 
the wing in which the chamber he had now retired to was 
placed. They were brilliantly illumined— their windows 
open to admit the fresh, soft breeze of night, — and he 
saw, as if by daylight, distinct and gorgeous, in their gay 


the last of the barons. 291 

dresses, the many revellers within. But one group caught 
and riveted his eye. Close by the centre window he 
recognized his gentle Anne, with downcast looks; ne 
almost fancied he saw her blush, as her young bridegroom, 
young and beautiful as herself, whispered love’s flatteries 
in her ear. He saw farther on, but yet near, his own 
sweet countess, and muttered — -After twenty years of 
marriage, may Anne be as dear to him as thou art now 
to me I ” And still he saw, or deemed he saw, his lady’s 
eye, after resting with tender happiness on the young 
pair, rove wistfully around, as if missing and searching 
for her partner in her mother’s joy. But what form 
sweeps by with so haughty a majesty, then pauses by the 
betrothed, addresses them not, but seems to regard them 
with so fixed a watch? He knew by her ducal diadem, 
by the baudekin colors of her robe, by her unmistakable 
air of pride, his daughter Isabel. He did not distinguish 
the expression of her countenance, but an ominous thrill 
passed through his heart ; for the attitude itself had an 
expression, and not that of a sister’s sympathy and love. 
He turned away his face with an unquiet recollection of 
the altered mood of his discontented daughter. He 
looked again : the duchess had passed on — lost amidst 
the confused splendor of the revel. And high and rich 
swelled the merry music that invited to the stately pavon. 
He gazed still : his lady had left her place, the lovers, 
too, had vanished, and where they had stood, stood now 
in close conference, his ancient enemies, Exeter and 
Somerset. The sudden change, from objects of love to 


292 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

those associated with hate, had something which touched 
one of those superstitions to which, in all ages, the heart, 
when deeply stirred, is weakly sensitive. And again, 
forgetful of the revel, the earl turned to the serener land- 
scape of the grove and the moonlit green-sward, and 
mused and mused, till a soft arm thrown round him woke 
his reverie. For this had his lady left the revel. Divin- 
ing, by the instinct born of love, the gloom of her hus- 
band, she had stolen from pomp and pleasure to his side. 

1. “Ah I wherefore wouldst thou rob me,” said the coun- 
tess, “ of one hour of thy presence, since so few hours 
remain — since when the sun, that succeeds the morrow’s, 
shines upon these walls, the night of thine absence will 
have closed upon me ? ” 

“And if that thought of parting, sad to me as thee, 
suffice not, belle amie, to dim the revel,” answered the 
earl, “ weetest thou not how ill the grave and solemn 
thoughts of one who sees before him the emprise that 
would change the dynasty of a realm, can suit with the 
careless dance and the wanton music ? But, not at that 
moment did I think of those mightier cares ; my thoughts 
were nearer home. Hast thou noted, sweet wife, the 
silent gloom, the clouded brow of Isabel, since she learned 
that Anne was to be the bride of the heir of Lancaster ?” 

The mother suppressed a sigh. “ We must pardon, or 
glance lightly over, the mood of one who loves her lord, 
and mourns for his baffied hopes ! Well-a-day I I grieve 
that she admits not even me to her confidence. Ever 
with the favorite lady who lately joined her tram — me- 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 293 

thinks, that new friend gives less holy counsels than a 
mother I ” 

“ Ha ! and yet what counsels can Isabel listen to from 
a comparative stranger ? Even if Edward, or rather his 
cunning Elizabeth, had suborned this waiting-woman, our 
daughter never could hearken, even in an hour of anger, 
to the message from our dishonorer and our foe.’^ 

“ Nay, but a flatterer often fosters, by praising the 
erring thought. Isabel hath something, dear lord, of thy 
high heart and courage, and ever from childhood, her 
vaulting spirit, her very character of stately beauty, have 
given her a conviction of destiny and power loftier thau 
those reserved for our gentle Anne. Let us trust to time 
and forbearance, and hope that the affection of the gener- 
ous sister will subdue the jealousy of the disappointed 
princess.” 

“ Pray Heaven, indeed, that it so prove I Isabel’s 
ascendancy over Clarence is great, and might be danger- 
ous. Would that she consented to remain in France with 
thee and Anne ! Her lord, at least, it seems I have con- 
vinced and satisfied. Pleased at the vast fortunes before 
him, the toys of vice-regal power, his lighter nature re- 
conciles itself to the loss of a crown, which, I fear, it 
could never have upheld. For the more -I have read his 
qualities in our household intimacy, the more it seems 
that I could scarcely have justified the imposing on Eng- 
land a king not worthy of so great a people. He is 
young yet, but how different the youth of Lancastrian 
Edward ? In him what earnest and manly spirit ! What 
25 * 


294 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

heaveii-borii views of the duties of a king I Oh, if there 
be a sin in the passion that hath urged me on, let me, and 
me alone, atone — and may I be at least the instrument to 
give to England a prinee whose virtues shafl compensate 
for all I ” 

While yet the last word trembled upon the earl’s lips, 
a light flashed along the floors, hitherto illumined but by 
the stars and the full moon. And presently Isabel, in 
conference with the lady whom her mother had referred 
to, passed into the room, on her way to her private cham- 
ber. The countenance of this female diplomatist, whose 
talent for intrigue Philip de Comines* has commemo- 
rated, but whose name, happily for her memory, History 
has concealed, was soft and winning in its expression, to 
the ordinary glance, though the sharpness of the features, 
the thin compression of the lips, and the harsh dry red- 
ness of the hair, corresponded with the attributes which 
modern physiognomical science truly or erringly assigns 
to a wily and treacherous character. She bore a light in 
her hand, and its rays shone full on the disturbed and 
agitated face of the duchess. Isabel perceived at once 
the forms of her parents, and stopped short in some whis- 
pered conversation, and uttered a cry almost of dismay. 

“Thou leavest the revel betimes, fair daughter,” said 
the earl, examining her countenance with an eye some- 
what stern. 

“ My lady,” said the confidant, with a lowly reverence, 
“was anxious for her babe.” 


* Comines, iii. 5 ; Hall, Lingard, Hume, etc. 


295 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

“Thy lady, good waiting - wench, ’’ said Warwick, 
“ needs not thy tongue to address her father. Pass on.” 

The gentlewoman bit her lips, but obeyed, and quitted 
the room. The earl approached and took Isabel’s hand 
— it was cold as stone. 

My child,” said he, tenderly, “ thou dost well to retire 
to rest— of late thy cheek hath lost its bloom. But just 
now, for many causes, I was wishing thee not to brave 
our perilous return to England; and now, I know not 
whether it would make me the more uneasy, to fear for 
thy health if absent or thy safety if with me ! ” 

“My lord,” replied Isabel, coldly, “my duty calls me^ 
tp husband’s side, and the more, since now it seems 
he dares the battle, but reaps not its rewards ! Let Ed- 
ward and Anne res^ here in safety— Clarence and Isabel 
go to achieve the diadem and orb for others I ” 

“Be not bitter with thy father, girl — be not envious 
of thy sister I ” said the earl, in grave rebuke ; then soft- 
ening his tone, he added, “The women of a noble house 
should have no ambition of their own — their glory and 
their honor they should leave, unmurmuring, in the hands 
of men ! Mourn not if thy sister mounts the throne of 
him who would have branded the very name to which 
thou and she were born ! ” 

“I have made no reproach, my lord. Forgive me, I 
pray you, if I now retire ; I am sore weary, and would 
fain have strength ana health not to be a burden to you 
wnen you depart.” 

The duchess bowed with proud submission, and moved 
on. 


296 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


“ Beware I ” said the earl, in a low voice. 

“ Beware ! — and of what ? ” said Isabel, startled. 

Of thine own heart, Isabel. Ay, go to thine infant’s 
couch, ere thou seek thine own, and, before the sleep of 
Innocence, calm thyself back to Womanhood.” 

The duchess raised her head quickly, but habitual awe 
of her father checked the angry answer ; and kissing, with 
formal reverence, the hand the countess extended to her, 
she left the room. She gained the chamber in which was 
the cradle of her son, gorgeously canopied with silks, in- 
wrought with the blazoned arms of royal Clarence ; — 
and beside the cradle sat the confidant. 

The duchess drew aside the drapery, and contemplated 
the rosy face of the infant slumberer. 

Then, turning to her confidant, she said — 

“ Three months since, and I hoped my firstborn would 
be a king I Away with those va,in mockeries of royal 
birth I How suit they the destined vassal of the abhorred 
Lancastrian ? ” 

“ Sweet lady,” said the confidant, “ did I not warn 
thee from the first, that this alliance, to the injury of my 
lord duke and this dear boy, was already imminent ? I 
had hoped thou mightst have prevailed with the earl ! ” 

“He heeds me not — he cares not for me !” exclaimed 
Isabel ; “ his whole love is for Anne — Anne, who, with- 
out energy and pride, I scarcely have looked on as my 
equal ! And now, to my younger sister, I must bow my 
knee — pleased if she deign to bid me hold the skirt of her 
queenly robe ! Never — no, never 1 ” 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 297 

“ Calm thyself ; the courier must part this night. Mji 
Lord of Clarence is already in his chamber ; he waits but 
thine assent to write to Edward, that he rejects not his 
loving messages.” 

The duchess walked to and fro, in great disorder. 

“ But to be thus secret and false to my father ? ” 

“ Doth he merit that thou shouldst sacrifice thy child 
to him ? Reflect I — the king has no son I The English 
barons acknowledge not in girls a sovereign ; * and, with 
♦Edward on the throne, thy son is heir-presumptive. 
Little chance that a male heir shall now be born to 
Queen Elizabeth, while from Anne and her bridegroom, 
a long line may spring. Besides, no matter what parch- 
ment treaties may ordain, how can Clarence and his off- 
spring ever be regarded by a Lancastrian king but as 
enemies to feed the prison or the block, when some false 
invention gives the. seemly pretext for extirpating the 
lawful race.” 

. “Cease — cease — cease I” cried Isabel, in terrible 
struggles with herself. 

“Lady, 'the hour presses! And, reflect, a few lines 
are but words, to be confirmed or retracted as occasion 
suits I If Lord Warwick succeed, and King Edward 
lose his crown, ye can shape as ye best may your conduct 
to the time. But if the earl lose the day — if again he 

* Miss Strickland (Life of Elizabeth of York) remarks. “How 
much Norman prejudice in favor of Salic law had corrupted the 
common or constitutional law of England, regarding the succession.” 
The remaik involves a controversy. 


298 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

be driven into exile — a few words now release you and 
yours from everlasting banishment; restore your boy to 
his natural heritage ; deliver you from the insolence of 
the Anjouite, who, methinks, even dared this very day to 
taunt your highness ” 

“ She did — she did ! Oh that my father had been by 
to hear ! She bade me stand aside (that Anne might 
pass) — ‘not for the younger daughter of Lord War- 
wick, but for the lady admitted into the royalty of Lan- 
caster I ' Elizabeth Woodville, at least, never dared this 
insolence I ” 

“And this Margaret, the Duke of Clarence is to place 
on the throne, which your child yonder might otherwise 
aspire to mount I ” 

Isabel clasped her hands in mute passion. 

“ Hark I ” said the confidant, throwing open the door. 

And along the corridor came, in measured pomp, a 
stately procession, the chamberlain in front, announcing 
“ Her Highness the Princess of Wales ; ” and Louis XI., 
leading the virgin bride (wife but in name and honor, till 
her dowry of a kingdom was made secure) to her gentle 
rest. The ceremonial pomp, the regal homage that 
attended the younger sister thus raised above herself, 
completed in Isabel’s jealous heart the triumph of the 
Tempter. Her face settled into hard resolve, and she 
passed at once from the chamber into one near at hand, 
where the Duke of Clarence sat alone, the rich wines of 
the livery, not untasted, before him, and the ink yet wot 
upon a scroll he had just indited. 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 299 

He turned his irresolute countenance to Isabel as she 
bent over him and read the letter. It was to Edward ; 
and after briefly warning him of the meditated invasion, 
significantly added — “and if I may seem to share this 
emprise, which, here and alone, I cannot resist, thou 
shalt find me still, when the moment comes, thy affection- 
ate brother and loyal subject. 

“Well, Isabel,” said the duke, “thou knowest I have 
delayed this, till the last hour, to please thee, for verily, 
lady mine, thy will is my sweetest law. But now, if thy 
heart misgives thee ” 

“It does — it does I” exclaimed the duchess, bursting 
into tears. 

“If thy heart misgives thee,” continued Clarence, 
who, with all his weakness, had muc*h of the duplicity of 
his brothers, “ why, let it pass. Slavery to scornful 
Margaret — vassalage tO thy sister’s spouse — triumph to 
the House which both thou and I were taught from 
childhood to deem accursed — why, welcome all I so that 
Isabel does not weep, and our boy reproach us not in the 
days to come ! ” 

For all answer, Isabel, who had seized the letter, let it 
drop on the table, pushed it, with averted face, towards 
the duke, and turned back to the cradle of her child, 
whom she woke with her sobs, and who wailed its shrill 
reply in infant petulance and terror — snatched from its 
slumber to the arms of the remorseful mother. 

A smile of half contemptuous joy passed over the thin 
lips of the she-Jndas, and, without speaking, she took 


800 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

her way to Clarence. He had sealed and bound his 
letter, first adding these words — “ My lady and duchess, 
whatever her kin, has seen this letter, and approves it, 
for she is more a friend to York than to the earl, now 
he has turned Lancastrian ; ” and placed it in a small 
iron coffer. 

He gave the coffer, curiously clasped and locked, to 
the gentlewoman, with a significant glance — “Be quick, 
or she repents I The courier waits ! — his steed saddled ! 
The instant you give it, he departs — he hath his permit 
to pass the gates.” 

“All is prepared ; ere the clock strike, he is on his 
way.” 

The confidant vanished — the duke sank in his chair, 
and rubbed his hands. 

“ Oho ! father-in-law, thou deemest me too dull for a 
crown. I am not dull enough for thy tool. I have had 
the wit, at least, to deceive thee, and to hide resentment 
beneath a smiling brow I Dullard thou, to believe aught 
less than the sovereignty of England could have bribed 
Clarence to thy cause 1 ” He turned to the table and 
complacently drained his goblet. 

Suddenly, haggard and pale as a spectre, Isabel stood 
before him. 

“I was mad — mad, George I The letter I the letter 
— it must not go I ” 

At that moment the clock struck. 

''Bel enfant,’’' said the duke “ it is too late I” 


BOOK TENTH. 


THE RETURN OF THE KING-MAKER, 


CHAPTER I. 

The Maid’s Hope, the Courtier’s Love, and the Sage’s Comfort. 

Fair are thy fields, 0 England ; fair the rural farm 
and the orchards in which the blossoms have ripened into 
laughing fruits ; and fairer than all, 0 England, the faces 
of thy soft-eyed daughters. 

From the field where Sibyll and her father had wandered 
amidst the dead, the dismal witnesses of war had vanished ; 
and over the green pastures roved the gentle flocks. And 
the farm to which Hastings had led the wanderers looked 
upon that peaceful field through its leafy screen; and 
there father and daughter had found a home. 

It was a lovely summer evening, and Sibyll put aside 
the broidery-frame, at which, for the last hour, she had 
not worked ; and gliding to the lattice, looked wistfully 
along the winding lane. The room was in the upper 
story, and was decorated with a care which the exterior 
of the house little promised, and which almost approached 

11.-26 3b (301) 


302 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


to elegance. The fresh green rushes that strewed the 
floor were intermingled with dried wild thyme and other 
fragrant herbs. The bare walls were hung with serge of 
a bright and cheerful blue ; a rich carpet de cwfr covered 
the oak table, on which lay musical instruments, curiously 
inlaid, with a few MSS., chiefly of English and Provengal 
poetry. The tabourets were covered with cushions of 
Norwich worsted, in gay colors. All was simple, it is 
true, yet all betokened a comfort — nay, a refinement, an 
evidence of wealth, very rare in the houses even of the 
second order of nobility. 

As Sibyll gazed, her face suddenly bi’ightened ; she 
uttered a joyous cry — hurried from the room — descended 
the stairs, and passed her father, who was seated without 
the porch, and seemingly plunged in one of his most 
abstracted reveries. She kissed his brow — (he heeded 
her not) — bounded with light step over the sward of the 
orchard, and pausing by a wicket gate, listened with 
throbbing heart, to the advancing sound of a horse^s 
hoofs; nearer came the sound, and nearer. A cavalier 
appeared in sight, sprang from his saddle, and, leaving 
his palfrey to find his way to the well-known stable, sprang 
lightly over the little gate. 

“And thou hast watched for me, Sibyll ? ” 

The girl blushingly withdrew from the eager embrace, 
and said, touchingly — “ My heart watcheth for thee 
alway. Oh, shall I thank or chide thee for so much care I 
Thou wilt see how thy craftsmen have changed the rugged 
homestead into the daintiest bower I 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


303 


*‘Alas I my Sibyll ! would that it were worthier of thy 
beauty, and our mutual troth I Blessings on thy trust 
and sweet patience ; may the day soon come when I may 
lead thee to a nobler home ; and hear knight and baron 
envy the bride of Hastings.” 

“ My own lord I ” said Sibyll, with grateful tears in 
confiding eyes; but, after a pause, she added, timidly — 
“ Does the king still bear so stern a memory against so 
humble a subject ? ” 

“ The king is more wroth than before, since tidings of 
Lord Warwick’s restless machinations in France have 
soured his temper. He cannot hear thy name without 
threats against thy father as a secret adherent of Lan- 
caster, and accuseth thee of witching his chamberlain, — 
as, in truth, thou hast. The Duchess of Bedford is more 
than ever under the influence of Friar Bungey, to whose 
spells and charms, and not to our good swords, she 
ascribes the marvellous flight of Warwick and the dis- 
persion of our foes ; and the friar, methinks, has fostered, 
and yet feeds Edward’s suspicions of thy harmless father. 
The king chides himself for having suffered poor Warner 
to depart unscathed, and even recalls the disastrous ad- 
venture of the mechanical, and swears that, from the first, 
thy father was in treasonable conspiracy with Margaret. 
Nay, sure I am, that if I dared to wed thee while his 
anger lasts, he would condemn thee as a sorceress, and 
give me up to the secret hate of my old foes, the Wood- 
villes But fie I be not so appalled, my Sibyll ; Edward’s 


304 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

passions, though fierce, are changeful, and patience will 
reward us both.” 

“ Meanwhile, thou lovest me, Hastings ! ” said Sibyll, 
with great emotion. “ Oh, if thou knewest how I tor- 
ment myself in thine absence I — I see thee surrounded by 
the fairest and the loftiest, and say to myself, ‘ Is it pos- 
sible that he can remember me ? ’ But thou lovest me 
still — still — still, and ever I Dost 4hou not ? ” 

And Hastings said and swore. 

“And the Lady Bonville ? ” asked Sibyll, trying to 
smile archly, but with the faltering tone of jealous fear. 

“ I have not seen her for months,” replied the noble, 
with a slight change of countenance. “ She is at one of 
their western manors. They say her lord is sorely ill ; 
and the Lady Bonville is a devout hypocrite, and plays 
the tender wife. But enough of such ancient and worn- 
out memories. Thy father — sorrows he still for his 
Eureka? I can learn no trace of it.” 

“ See,” said Sibyll, recalled to her filial love, and point- 
ing to Warner as they now drew near the house, “see, he 
shapes another Eureka from his thoughts ! ” 

“ How fares it, dear Warner ? ” asked the noble, takino- 

' o 

the scholar’s hand. 

“Ah I ” cried the student, roused at the sight of his 
powerful protector. “ Bringest thou tidings of it ? Thy 
cheerful eye tells me that — no — no — thy face changes I 
They have destroyed it I Oh that I could be young once 
more ! ” 

“What!” said the world-wise man, astonished. ‘If 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 305 

thou hadst another youth, wouldst thou cherish the same 
delusion, and go again through a life of hardship, perse- 
cution, and wrong?” 

“My noble son,” said the philosopher, “for hours 
when I have felt the wrong, the persecution, and the 
hardship, count the days and the nights when I have felt 
only the hope, and the glory, and the joy ! God is kinder 
to us all than man can know ; for man looks only to the 
sorrow on the surface, and sees not the consolation in 
the deeps of the unwitnessed soul.” 

Sibyll had left Hastings by her father’s side, and tripped 
lightly to the farther part of the house, inhabited by the 
rustic owners who supplied the homely service, to order 
the evening banquet, — the happy banquet; for hunger 
gives not such flavor to the viand, nor thirst such sparkle 
to the wine, as the presence of a beloved guest. 

And as the courtier seated himself on the rude settle, 
under the honeysuckles that wreathed the porch, a de- 
licious calm stole over his sated mind. The pure soul of 
the student, released awhile from the tyranny of an earthly 
pursuit — the drudgery of a toil that, however grand, still 
but ministered to human and material science — had found 
for its only other element the contemplation of more 
solemn and eternal mysteries. Soaring naturally, as a 
bird freed from a golden cage, into the realms of heaven, 
he began now, with earnest and spiritual eloquence, to 
talk of the things and visions lately made familiar to his 
thoughts. Mounting from philosophy to religion, he in- 
dulged in his large ideas upon life and nature : of the 
26* u 


306 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


stars that now came forth in heaven ; of the laws that 
gave liarmony to the universe ; of the evidence of a God 
in the mechanism of creation ; of the spark from central 
divinity, that, kindling in a man’s soul, we call “genius ; ” 
of the eternal resurrection of the dead, which makes the 
very principle of being, and types, in the leaf and in the 
atom, the immortality of the great human race. He was 
sublimer, that grey old man, hunted from the circle of 
his kind — in his words, than ever is action in its deeds; 
for words can fathom truth, and deeds but blunderingly 
and lamely seek it. 

And the sad, and gifted, and erring intellect of Has- 
tings, rapt from its little ambition of the hour, had no 
answer when his heart asked, “ What can courts and a 
king’s smile give me in exchange for serene tranquillity 
and devoted love ? ” 


CHAPTER II. 

The Man awakes in the Sage, and the She-Wolf again hath tracked 
the Lamb. 

From the night in which Hastings had saved from the 
knives of the tymbesteres Sibyll and her father, his honor 
and chivalry had made him their protecter. The people 
of the farm (a widow and her children, with the peasants 
in their employ) were kindly and simple folks. What 
safer home for the wanderers than that to whi ?h Hastings 
had removed them ? The influence of Sibyll over his 


THE LAST OF THE BORONS 307 

variable heart or fancy was renewed. Again, vows were 
interchanged, and faith plighted. Anthony Woodville, 
Lord Rivers, who, however gallant an enemy, was still 
more than ever, since Warwick\s exile, a formidable one, 
and who shared his sister’s dislike to Hastings, w^as 
naturally, at that time, in the fullest favor of King Ed- 
ward, anxious to atone for the brief disgrace his brother- 
in-law had suffered during the latter days of Warwick’s 
administration. And Hastings, offended by the manners 
of the rival favorite, took one of the disgusts so frequent 
in the life of a courtier, and, despite his ofBce of cham- 
berlain, absented himself much from his sovereign’s com- 
pany. Thus, in the reaction of his mind, the influence 
of Sibyll was greater than it otherwise might have been. 
His visits to the farm grew regular and frequent. The 
widow believed him nearly related to Sibyll, and sus- 
pected Warner to be some attainted Lancastrian, com- 
pelled to hide in secret till his pardon was obtained ; and 
no scandal was attached to the noble’s visits, nor any 
sui-prise evinced at his attentive care for all that could 
lend a grace to a temporary refuge unfitting the quality 
of his supposed kindred. 

And, in her entire confidence and reverential affection, 
Sibyll’s very pride was rather soothed than wounded by 
obligations which were but proofs of love, and to which 
plighted troth gave her a sweet right. As for Warner, 
he had hitherto seemed to regard the great lord’s atten- 
tions only as a tribute to his own science, and a testimony 
of tne interest which a statesman might naturally feel in 


308 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


the invention of a thing that might benefit the realm. 
And Hastings had been delicate in the pretexts of his 
visits. One time he called to relate the death of poor 
Madge, though he kindly concealed the manner of it, 
which he had discovered, but which opinion, if not law, 
forbade him to attempt to punish : drowning was but the 
orthodox ordeal of a suspected witch, and it was not 
without many scruples that the poor woman was interred 
in holy ground. The search for the Eureka was a pre- 
tence that sufficed for countless visits ; and then, too, 
Hastings had counselled Adam to sell the ruined house, 
and undertaken the negotiation ; and the new comforts 
of their present residence, and the expense of the main- 
tenance, were laid to the account of the sale. Hastings 
had begun to consider Adam Warner as utterly blind and 
passive to the things that passed under his eyes ; and his 
astonishment was great when, the morning after the visit 
we have just recorded, Adam suddenly lifting his eyes, and 
seeing the guest whispering soft tales in SibylPs ear, rose 
abruptly, approached the nobleman, took him gently by 
the arm, led him into the garden, and thus addressed 
him : — 

“Noble lord, you have been tender and generous in 
our misfortunes. The poor Eureka is lost to me and the 
world for ever. God’s will be done 1 Methinks Heaven 
designs thereby to rouse me to the sense of nearer duties ; 
and I have a daughter whose name I adjure you not to 
sully, and whose heart I pray you not to break. Como 
hither no more, my Lord Hastings.” 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 309 

This speech, almost the only one whicli showed plain 
sense and judgment in the affairs of this life that the man 
of genius had ever uttered, so confounded Hastings, that 
he with difficulty recovered himself enough to say — 

“ My poor scholar, what hath so suddenly kindled sus- 
picions which wrong thy child and me ? ” 

“ Last eve, when we sate together, I saw your hand 
steal into hers, and suddenly I remembered the day when 
I was young, and wooed her mother I And last night I 
slept not, and sense and memory became active for my 
living child, as they were wont to be only for the iron 
infant of my mind, and I said to myself—' Lord Hastings 
is King Edward’s friend ; and King Edward spares not 
‘maiden honor. Lord Hastings is a mighty peer, and he 
will not wed the dowerless and worse than nameless girl I ’ 
Be merciful! Depart — depart!” 

“ But,” exclaimed Hastings, " if I love thy sweet Sibyll 
in all honesty — if I have plighted to her my troth ” 

“Alas — alas!” groaned Adam. 

“ If I wait but my king’s permission to demand her 
wedded hand, couldst thou forbid me the presence of my 
affianced ? ” 

“ She loves thee, then ? ” said Adam, in a tone of great 
anguish — “she loves thee — speak!” 

“It is my pride to think it.” 

“ Then go — go at once ; come back no more till thou 
hast wound up thy courage to brave the sacrifice ; no, 
not till the priest is ready at the altar — not till the bride- 
groom can claim the bride. And as that time will never 


310 


TUE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


come — never — never, — leave me to whisper to the break- 
ing heart — ‘Courage; — honor and virtue are left thee 
yet, and thy mother from heaven looks down on a stain- 
less child I ’ 

The resuscitation of the dead could scarcely have 
startled and awed the courtier more than this abrupt 
development of life and passion and energy, in a man 
who had hitherto seemed to sleep in the folds of his 
thought, as a chrysalis in its web. But as we have always 
seen that ever, when this strange being woke from his 
ideal abstraction, he awoke to honor and courage and 
truth, — so now, whether, as he had said, the absence of 
the Eureka left his mind to the sense of practical duties, 
or whether their common suffering had»more endeared to 
him his gentle companion, and affection sharpened reason, 
Adam Warner became puissant and majestic in his rights 
and sanctity of father ; greater in his homely household 
character, than when, in his mania of inventor, and the 
sublime hunger of aspiring genius, he had stolen to his 
daughter’s couch, and waked her with the cry of “ Gold I” 

Before the force and power of Adam’s adjuration, 

his outstretched hand — the anguish, yet authority, written 
on his face — all the art and self-possession of the accom- 
plished lover deserted him, as one spell-bound. 

He was literally without reply ; till, suddenly, the sight 
of Sibyll, who, surprised by this singular conference, but 
unsuspecting its nature, now came from the house, relieved 
and nerved him ; and his first impulse was then, as ever, 
worthy and noble, such as showed, though dimly, how 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 311 

glorious a creature he had been, if cast in a time and 
amidst a race which could have fostered the impulse into 
habit. 

“ Brave old man I ” he said, kissing the hand still 
raised in command — thou hast spoken as beseems thee ; 
and my answer I will tell thy child.’’ Then hurrying to 
the wondering Sibyll, he resumed; “Your father says 
well, that not thus, dubious and in secret, should I visit 
the home blest by thy beloved presence— I obey ; — I leave 
thee, Sibyll. I go to my king, as one who hath served 
him long and truly, and claims his guerdon — thee!^' 

“ Oh, my lord I ” exclaimed Sibyll, in' generous terror ; 
“bethink thee well — remember what thou saidst but last 
eve. This king so fierce — my name so hated ! No — no I 
leave me. Farewell for ever, if it be right, as what thou 
and my father say must be. But thy life — thy liberty — 
— thy welfare — they are my happiness — thou hast no 
right to endanger theni!^' And she fell at his knees. 
He raised, and strained her to his heart ; then resigning 
her to her father’s arms, he said in a voice choked with 
emotion — 

“Not as peer and as knight, but as man, I claim my 
prerogative of home and hearth ! Let Edward frown — 
call back his gifts — banish me his court — thou art more 
worth than all I Look for me — sigh not — weep not — 
smile till we meet again I ” He left them with these 
words — hastened to the stall where his steed stood, 
caparisoned it with his own hands, and rode with the 


312 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


speed of one whom passion spurs and goads, towards the 
Tower of London. 

But as Sibyll started from her father’s arms, when she 
heard the departing hoofs of her lover’s steed, — to listen 
and to listen for the last sound that told of /?im, a terrible 
apparition, ever ominous of woe and horror, met her eye. 
On the other side of the orchard fence, which concealed 
her figure, but not her well-known face which peered 
above, stood the tymbestere, Graul. A shriek of terror 
at this recognition burst from Sibyll, as she threw herself 
again upon Adam’s breast : but when he looked round, 
to discover the cause of her alarm — Graul was gone. 


CHAPTER III. 

Virtuous Resolves submitted to the test of Vanity and the World. 

On reaching his own house, Hastings learned that the 
court was still at Shene. He waited but till the retinue 
which his rank required were equipped and ready, and 
reached the court, from which of late he had found so 
many excuses to absent himself, before night. Edward 
was then at the banquet, and Hastings was too experienced 
a courtier to disturb him at such a time. In a mood 
unfit for compatronship, he took his way to the apart- 
ments usually reserved for him, when a gentleman met 
him by the way, and apprized him, with great respect, 
^at the Lord Scales and Rivers had already appropriated 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 313 

those apartments to the principal waiting-lady of his 
countess, — but that other chambers, if less commodious 
and spacious, were at his command. 

Hastings had not the superb and more than regal pride 
of Warwick and Montagu ; but this notice sensibly piqued 
and galled him. . < 

“ My apartments as Lord Chamberlain — as one of the 
captain-generals in the king’s army, given to the waiting- 
lady of Sir Anthony Woodville’s wife I — At whose order, 
sir ? ” 

“ Her highness the queen’s — pardon me, my lord,” and 
the gentleman, looking round and sinking his voice, con- 
tinued — pardon me, her highness added, ‘If my Lord 
Chamberlain returns not ere the week ends, he may find 
not only the apartment, but the oflBce, no longer free.’ 
My lord, we all love you — forgive my zeal, and look well 
if you would guard your own.” 

“Thanks, sir. — Is my Lord of Gloucester in the 
palace ? ” 

“ He is — and in his chamber. He sits not long at the 
feast.” 

“ Oblige me, by craving his grace’s permission to wait 
on him at leisure — I attend his answer here.” 

V Leaning against the wall of the corridor, Hastings 
gave himself up to other thoughts than those of love ! — 
So strong is habit — so powerful vanity or ambition, once 
indulged, that this puny slight made a sudden revulsion in 
the mind of the royal favorite ; — once more the agitated and 
brilliant court life stirred and fevered him ; — that life, so 
II.— 27 


314 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


wearisome when secure, became sweet when imperilled. 
To counteract his foes — to humble his rivals — to regain 
the king’s countenance — to baffle, with the easy art of 
his skilful intellect, every hostile stratagem — such were 
the ideas that crossed and hurtled themselves, and Sibyll 
was forgotten. 

The gentleman reappeared. “ Prince Richard besought 
my lord’s presence with loving welcome ; ” and to the 
duke’s apartment went Lord Hastings. Richard, clad in 
a loose chamber robe, which concealed the defects of his 
shape, rose from before a table covered with papers, and 
embraced Hastings with cordial affection. 

“Never more gladly hail to thee, dear William. I 
need thy wise counsels with the king, and I have glad 
tidings for thine own ear.” 

Pardieu, my prince, the king, methinks, will scarce 
heed the counsels of a dead man.” 

“Dead?” 

“Ay. At courts it seems men are dead — their rooms 
filled, their places promised or bestowed, if they come 
not, morn and night, to convince the king that they are 
alive.” And Hastings, with constrained gaiety, repeated 
the information he had received. 

“What would you, Hastings?” said the duke, shrug- 
ging his shoulders, but with some latent meaning in his 
tone. “Lord Rivers were nought in himself; but his 
lady is a mighty heiress,* and requires state, as she be- 

* Elizabeth secured to her brother, Sir Anthony, the greatest 
heiress in the kingdom — in the daughter of Lord Scales — a wife, 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 315 

stows pomp. Look round, and tell me what man ever 
maintained himself in power without the strong connec- 
tions, the convenient dower, the acute, unseen, unsleeping 
.woman influence of some noble wife ? How can a poor 
man defend his repute, his popular name, that airy but 
all-puissant thing we call dignity or atation, against the 
pricks and stings of female intrigue and female gossip ? 
But he marries, and lo, a host of fairy champions, who 
pinch the rival lozels unawares ; his wife hath her array 
of courtpie and jupon, to array against the dames of his 
foes I Wherefore, my friend, while thou art unwedded, 
think not to cope with Lord Rivers, who hath a wife, with 
three sisters, two aunts, and a score of she-cousins ! ’’ 
“And if,’’ replied Hastings, more and more unquiet 
under the duke’s truthful irony, — “if I were now come to 

ask the king permission to wed ” 

“If thou wert — and the bride-elect were a lady, with 
power and wealth, and manifold connections, and the 
practice of a court, thou wouldst be the mightiest lord in 
the kingdom since Warwick’s exile.” 

“And if she had but youth, beauty, and virtue?” 

“ Oh, then, my Lord Hastings, pray thy patron saint 
for a war — for in peace thou wouldst be lost amongst the 
crowd. But truce to these jests ; for thou art not the man 
to prate of youth, virtue, and such like, in sober earnest, 
amidst this work-day world, where nothing is young and 
nothing virtuous; — and listen to grave matters.” 


by the way, who is said to have been a mere child at the time of 
the marriage. 


316 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

The duke then communicated to Hastings the last 
tidings received of the machinations of Warwick. He 
was in high spirits ; for those last tidings but reported 
Margaret’s refusal to entertain the proposition of a 
nuptial alliance with the earl, though, on the other hand, 
the Duke of Burgundy, who was in constant correspond- 
ence with his spies, wrote word that Warwick w^as col- 
lecting provisions, from his own means, for more than 
60,000 men ; and that, wdth Lancaster or without, the 
earl was prepared to match his own family interest against 
the armies of Edward. 

“And,” said Hastings, “if all his family joined with 
him, what foreign king could be so formidable an invader ? 
Maltravers and the Mowbrays, Fauconberg, Westmore- 
land, Fitzhugh, Stanley, Bonville, Worcester ” 

“But happily,’’ said Gloucester, “the Mowbrays have 
been allied also to the queen’s sister ; Worcester detests 
Warwick; Stanley always murmurs against us, a sure 
sign that he will fight for us; and Bonville — I have in 
view a trusty Yorkist to whom the retainers of that house 
shall be assigned. But of that anon. W^hat I now wish 
from thy wisdom is, to aid me in rousing Edward from 
his lethargy : he laughs at his danger, and neither com- 
municates with his captains nor mans his coasts. His 
courage makes him a dullard.” 

After some further talk on these heads, and more de- 
tailed account of the preparations which Gloucester 
deemed necessary to urge on the king, the duke, then 
moving his chair nearer to Hastings, said, with a smile — 


THE LAST OF THE BAfeONS. 31t 

“And now, Hastings, to thyself : it seems, that thou 
hast not heard the news which reached uS four days since 
— the Lord Bonville is dead — died three months* ago at 
his manor-house in Devon. Thy Katherine is free, and 
in London. Well, man, where is thy joy?” 

“ Time is — time was! ” said Hastings, gloomily. “ The 
day has passed w^hen this news Could rejoice me.” 

“ Passed ! nay, thy good stars themselves have fought 
for thee in delay. Seven goodly manors swell the fair 
widow’s jointure ; the noble dowry she brought returns 
to her. Her very daughter will bring thee power. Young 
Cecily Bonville, the heiress, f Lord Dorset demands in 
betrothal. Thy wife will be mother-in-law to thy queen’s 
son ; on the other hand, she is already aunt to the Duchess 
of Clarence ; and George, be sure, sooner or later, will 
desert Warwick, and win his pardon. Powerful con- 
nexions — vast possessions — a lady of immaculate name 
and surpassing beauty, and thy first love ! — (thy hand 
trembles !) — thy first love — thy sole love, and thy last ! ” 

“Prince — Prince! forbear I Even if so — in brief, 
Katherine loves me not ! ” 

“Thou mistakest ! I have seen her, and she loves thee 
not the less because her virtue so long concealed the love.’’ 

* To those who have read the “ Paston Letters,” it will not seem 
strange that in that day the death of a nobleman at his country 
seat should be so long in reaching the metropolis — the ordinary 
purveyors of communication were the itinerant attendants of faii-s. 
And a father might be ignorant for months together of the death 
of hrs sou. 

f Afterwards married to Dorset. 

27 * 


318 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

Hastings uttered an exclamation of passionate joy, but 
again his face darkened. 

Gloucester watched him in silence ; besides any motives 
suggested by the affection he then sincerely bore to Hast- 
ings, policy might well interest the duke in the securing 
to so loyal a Yorkist the hand and the wealth of Lord 
Warwick’s sister ; but, prudently not pressing the subject 
further, he said, in an altered and careless voice, “ Par- 
don me if I have presumed on matters on which each 
man judges for himself. But as, despite all obstacle, one 
day or other Anne Nevile shall be mine, it would have 
delighted me to know a near connexion in Lord Hast- 
ings. And now, the hour grows late, I prithee let Ed- 
ward find thee in his chamber.” 

When Hastings attended the king, he at once per- 
ceived that Edward’s manner was changed to him. At 
first, he attributed the cause to the ill-offices of the queen 
and her brother; but the king soon betrayed the true 
source of his altered humor. 

“ My lord,” he said, abruptly, “ I am no saint, as thou 
knowest ; but there are some ties, par amour, which, in 
my mind, become not knights and nobles about a king’s 
person.” 

“ My liege, I arede you not ! ” 

“ Tush, William ! ” replied the king, more gently, 
“ thou hast more than once wearied me with application 
for the pardon of the nigromancer Warner — the whole 
court is scandalized at thy love for his daughter. Thou 
hast absented thyself from thine office on poor pretexts I 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 319 

I know thee too well not to be aware that love alone can 
make thee neglect thy king — thy time has been spent at 
the knees or in the arms of this young sorceress ! One 
word for all times — he whom a witch snares cannot be a 
king’s true servant I I ask of thee as a right, or as a 
grace — see this fair rihaude no more ! What, man, are 
there not ladies enough in merry England, that thou 
shouldst undo thyself for so unchristian a fere ? ” 

“ My king ! how can this poor maid have angered thee 
thus ? ” 

“ Knowest thou not” — began the king, sharply, and 
changing color as he eyed his favorite’s mournful aston- 
ishment, — 

“Ah, well I” he muttered to himself, “they have been 
discreet hitherto, but how long will they be so ? I am in 
time yet. It is enough,” — he added, aloud and gravely 
— “it is enough that our learned* Bungey holds her 
father as a most pestilent wizard, whose spells are mut- 
tered for Lancaster and the rebel Warwick ; that the 
girl hath her father’s unholy gifts, and I lay my command 
on thee, as liege king, and I pray thee, as loving friend, 
to see no more either child or sire I Let this suffice — 
and now I will hear thee on state, matters.” 

Whatever Hastings might feel, he saw that it was no 
time to venture remonstrance with the king, and strove 
to collect his thoughts, and speak indifferently on the high 

* It will be remembered that Edward himself was a man of no 
learning. 


320 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


interests to which Edward invited him ; but he was so 
distracted and absent that he made but a sorry counsellor, 
and the king, taking pity on him, dismissed his chamber- 
lain for the night. 

Sleep came r^ot to the couch of Hastings ; his acute- 
ness perceived that whatever Edward’s superstition, and 
he was a devout believer in witchcraft, some more worldly 
motive actuated him in his resentment to poor Sibyll. 
But, as we need scarcely say, that neither from the ab- 
stracted Warner, nor his innocent daughter, had Hast* 
ings learned the true cause, he wearied himself with vain 
conjectures, and knew not that Edward involuntarily did 
homage to the superior chivalry of his gallant favorite, 
when he dreaded that, above all men, Hastings should 
be made aware of the guilty secret which the philosopher 
and his child could tell. If Hastings gave his name and 
rank to Sibyll, how powerful a weight would the tale of 
a witness now so obscure suddenly acquire I 

Turning from the image of Sibyll, thus beset with 
thoughts of danger, embarrassment, humiliation, disgrace, 
ruin. Lord Hastings recalled the words of Gloucester • 
and the stately image of Katherine surrounded with every 
memory of early passion — every attribute of present 
ambition — rose before him, and he slept at last, to dream 
not of Sibyll and the humble orchard, but of Katherine 
in her maiden bloom — of the trysting-tree, by the Halls 
of Middleham — of the broken ring — of the rapture and 
the woe of his youth’s first high-placed love. 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


32 


CHAPTER lY. 

The strife which Sibyll had courted, between Katherine and her- 
self, commences in serious earnest. 

Hastings felt relieved when, the next day, several 
couriers arrived, with tidings so important as to merge 
all considerations into those of state. A secret messenger 
from the French court threw Gloucester into one of those 
convulsive passions of rage, to which, with all his intel- 
lect and dissimulation, he was sometimes subject — by the 
news of Anne’s betrothal to Prince Edward ; nor did the 
letter from Clarence to the king, attesting the success of 
one of his schemes, comfort Richard for the failure of the 
other. A letter from Burgundy confirmed the report of 
the spy, announced Duke Charles’s intention of sending 
a fleet to prevent Warwick’s invasion, and rated King 
Edward sharply for his supineness in not preparing suit- 
ably against so formidable a foe. The gay and reckless 
presumption of Edward, worthier of a knight-errant than 
a monarch, laughed at the word Invasion. “Pest on 
Burgundy’s ships I I only wish that the earl would 
land ! ”* he said to his council. None echoed the wish I 
But later in the day came a third messenger with infor- 
mation that roused all Edward’s ire ; careless of each 


* Com. Ui- c. 5. 
V 


B22 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

danger in the distance, he ever sprang into energy and 
vengeance when a foe was already in the field. And the 
Lord Fitzhugh (the young nobleman before seen among 
the rebels at Olney, and who had now succeeded to the 
honors of his house) had suddenly risen in the north, at 
the head of a formidable rebellion. No man had so 
large an experience in the warfare of those districts, the 
temper of the people, and the inclinations of the various 
towns and lordships as Montagu ; he was the natural 
chief to depute against the rebels. Some animated dis- 
cussion took place as to the dependence to be placed in 
the marquis at such a crisis ; but while the more wary 
held it safer, at all hazards, not to leave him unemployed, 
and to command his services in an expedition that would 
remove him from the neighborhood of his brother, should 
the latter land, as was expected, on the coast of Norfolk, 
Edward, with a blindness of conceit that seems almost 
incredible, believed firmly in the infatuated loyalty of the 
man whom he had slighted and impoverished, and whom, 
by his offer of his daughter to the Lancastrian prince, 
he had yet more recently cozened and deluded. Montagu 
was hastily summoned, and received orders to march at 
once to the north, levy forces and assume their command. 
The marquis obeyed with fewer words than were natural 
to him — left the presence, sprang on his horse, and as he 
rode from the palace, drew a letter from his bosom. “Ah, 
Edward,” said he, setting his teeth ; “ so, after the solemn 
betrothal of thy daughter to my son, thou wouldst have 
given her to thy Lancastrian enemy. Coward, to oribe 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 323 

his peace I — recreant, to belie thy word ! I thank thee 
for this news, Warwick ; for without that injury I feel I 
could never, when the hour came, have drawn sword 
against this faithless man, — especially for Lancaster. 
Ay, tremble, thou who deridest all truth and honor ! He 
who himself betrays, cannot call vengeance, treason I ” 
Meanwhile, Edward departed, for farther preparations, 
to the Tower of London. New evidences of the mine 
beneath his feet here awaited the incredulous king. On 
the door of St. Paul’s, of many of the metropolitan 
churches, on the Standard at Chepe, and on London 
Bridge, during the past night, had been affixed, none 
knew by whom, the celebrated proclamation, signed by 
Warwick and Clarence (drawn up in the bold style of the 
earl), announcing their speedy return, containing a brief 
and vigorous description of the misrule of the realm, and 
their determination to reform all evils and redress all 
wrongs.* Though the proclamation named not the 
restoration of the Lancastrian line (doubtless from regard 
for Henry’s safety), all men in the metropolis were already 
aware of the formidable league between Margaret and 
Warwick. Yet, even still, Edward smiled in contempt, 
for he had faith in the letter received from Clarence, and 
felt assured that the moment the duke and the earl landed, 
the former would betray his companion stealthily to the 
king ; so, despite all these exciting subjects of grave 
alarm, the nightly banquet at the Tower was never mer- 

* See for this proclamation, Ellis’s “Original Letters,” vol. i., 
second series, letter 42. 


324 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

rier and more joyous. Hastings left the feast ere it 
deepened into revel, and, absorbed in various and pro- 
found contemplation, entered his apartment. He threw 
himself on a seat, and leant jiis face on his hands. 

“ Oh, no— no I he muttered, “ now, in the hour wheu 
true greatness is most seen — when prince and peer crowd 
around me for counsel — when noble, knight, and squire, 
crave permission to march in the troop of which Hast- 
ings is the leader — now l feel how impossible, how falsely 
fair, the dream that I could forget all — all for a life of 
obscurity — for a young girl’s love I Love I as if I had 
not felt its delusions to palling I love, as if I could love 
again ; or, if love— alas, it must be a light reflected but 
from memory I And Katherine is free once more ! ” His 
eye fell as he spoke, perhaps in shame and remorse, that, 
feeling thus now, he had felt so differently when he bade 
Sibyll smile till his return ! 

“ It is the air of this accursed court which taints our 
best resolves I” he murmured, as an apology for himself; 
but scarcely was the poor excuse made, than the murmur 
broke into an exclamation of surprise and joy. A letter 
lay before him — he recognized the hand of Katherine. 
What years had passed since her writing had met his eye, 
since the lines that bade him “farewell, and forget!” 
Those lines had been blotted with tears, and these, as he 
tore open the silk that bound them — these, the trace of 
tears, too, was on them ! Yet they were but few, and in 
tremulous characters. They ran thus; 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 32b 

To-morrow, before noon, the Lord Hastings is prayed 
to visit one whose life he hath saddened by the thought 
and the accusation that she hath clouded and embittered 
his. 

Katherine de Bonvillb.” 

Leaving Hastings to such meditations of fear or of 
hope, as these lines could call forth, we lead the reader 
to a room not very distant from his own — the room of 
the illustrious Friar Bungey, 

The ex-tregetour was standing before the captured 
Eureka, and gazing on it with an air of serio-comic 
despair and rage. We say the Eureka, as comprising 
all the ingenious contrivances towards one single object 
invented by its maker, an harmonious compound of many 
separate details; — but the iron creature no longer de- 
served that superb appellation, for its various members 
were now disjointed and dislocated, and lay pell-mell in 
multiform confusion. 

By the side of the friar stood a female, enveloped in a 
long scarlet mantle, with the hood partially drawn over 
the face, but still leaving visible the hard, thin, villanous 
lips, the stern, sharp chin, and the jaw resolute and solid 
as if hewed from stone. 

“I tell thee, Graul,” said the friar, “that thou hast 
had far the best of the bargain. I have put this diabolical 
contrivance to all manner of shapes, and have muttered 
?ver it enough Latin to have charmed a monster into 
IL— 28 


326 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


civility. And the accursed thing, after nearly pinching 
off three fingers, and scalding me with seething water, 
and spluttering and sputtering enough to have terrified 
any man but Friar Bungey out of his skin, is obstinatus 
ut mulus — dogged as a mule ; and was absolutely good 
for nought, till I happily thought of separating thi.s 
vessel from all the rest of the gear, and it serves now for 
the boiling my eggs I But by the soul of Father Merlin, 
whom the saints assoil, I need not have given myself all 
this torment for a thing which, at best, does the work of 
a farthing pipkin I ” 

“ Quick, master ; the hour is late I I must go while 
yet the troopers, and couriers, and riders, hurrying to 
and fro, keep the gates from closing. What wantest 
thou with Graul ? 

“ More reverence, child ! ” growled the friar. “ What 
I want of thee is briefly told, if thou hast the wit to 
serve me. This miserable Warner must himself expound 
to me the uses and trick of his malignant contrivance. 
Thou must find and bring him hither 1 ” 

“And if he will not expound ? ” 

“ The deputy-governor of the Tower will lend me a 
stone dungeon, and, if need be, the use of the brake to 
unlock the dotard’s tongue.” 

“ On what plea ? ” 

“ That Adam Warner is a wizard, in the pay of Lord 
Warwick, whom a more mighty master like myself alone 
can duly examine and defeat.” 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 327 

*‘And if I bring thee the sorcerer — what wilt thou 
teach me in return ? ’’ 

“What desirest thou most?” 

Graul mused, and said — “There is war in the wind. 
Graul follows the camp — her trooper gets gold and 
booty. But the trooper is stronger than Graul ; and 
when the trooper sleeps, it is with his knife by his side, 
and his sleep is light and broken, for he has wicked 
dreams. Give me a potion to make sleep deep, that his 
eyes may not open when Graul filches his gold, and his 
hand may be too heavy to draw the knife from its 
sheath I ” 

^‘Immunda — destababilis I — thine own paramour I” 

“ He hath beat me with his bridle-rein, he hath given 
a silver broad piece to Grisell ; Grisell hath sate on his 
knee ; Graul never pardons I ” 

The friar, rogue as he was, shuddered. “I cannot 
help thee to murder, I cannot give thee the potion ; name 
some other reward.” 

“I go ” 

^‘Nay, nay — think — pause.” 

“I know where Warner is hid. By this hour to- 
morrow night, I can place him in thy power. Say the 
word, and pledge me the draught.” 

“ Well, well, mulier abominabilis / — that is, irresistible 
bonnibel. I cannot give thee the potion ; but I will 
teach tnee an art which can make sleep heavier than the 
anodyne, and which wastes not like the essence, but 
strengthens by usage ; an art thou shalt have at thy 


328 THE EAST OP THE BARONS. 

fingers’ ends, and which often draws from the sleeper the 
darkest secrets of his heart.”* 

“ It is magic,” said Graul, with joy. 

“Ay, magic.” 

“ I will bring thee the wizard. But listen ; he never 
stirs abroad, save with his daughter. I must bring both,” 

“Nay — I want not the girl.” 

“But I dare not throttle her, for a great lord loves 
her — who would find out the deed and avenge it; and, 
if she be left behind, she will go to the lord, and the lord 
will discover what thou hast done with the wizard, and 
thou wilt hang ! ” 

“Never say ‘Hang’ to me, Graul ; it is ill-mannered 
and ominous. Who is the lord?” 

“Hastings,” 

“ Pest ! — and already he hath been searching for the 
thing. yonder ; and I have brooded over it night and day, 
like a hen over a chalk egg — only that the egg does not 
snap off the hen’s claws, as that diabolism would fain 
snap off my digits. But the war will carry Hastings 
away in its whirlwind ; and, in danger, the duchess is 
my slave, and will bear me through all. So, thou mayst 
bring the girl; and strangle her not; for no good ever 
comes of a murder — unless, indeed, it be absolutely 
necessary 1 ” 

“ I know the men who will help me, bold ribands, 
whom I will guerdon myself ; for I want not thy coins, 

* We have before said that animal magnetism was known to 
Bungey, and familiar to the necromancers, or rather theurgists. of 
the middle ages. 


THE EAST OP THE BARONS. 329 

but thy craft. When the curfew has tolled, and the bat 

hunts the moth, we will bring thee the quarry ” 

Graul turned — but as she gained the door, she stopped 
and said abruptly, throwing back her hood — 

“What age dost thou deem me?” 

“ Marry,” quoth the friar — “ an’ I had not seen thee 
>n thy mother’s knee, when she followed my stage of 
Tregetour — I should have guessed thee for thirty, but 
thou hast led too jolly a life to look still in the blossom 
— why speer’st thou the question ? ” 

“Because, when trooper and rihaud say to me, — 
* Graul, thou art too worn and too old to drink of our 
cup and sit in the lap, to follow the young fere to battle, 
and weave the blithe dance in the fair,’ — I would depart 
from my sisters, and have a hut of my own — and a black 
oat without a white hair, and steal herbs by the new 
moon, and bones from the charnel — and curse those whom 
I hate— and cleave the misty air on a besom, like Mother 
Halkin of Edmonton. Ha, ha ! Master, thou shalt pre- 
sent me then to the Sabbat. Graul has the metal for a 
bonny witch ! ” 

The tymbestere vanished with a laugh. The friar 
muttered a paternoster, for once, perchance, devoutly ; 
and after having again deliberately scanned the disjecta 
membra of the Eureka, gravely took forth a duck’s egg 
from his cupboard, and applied the master-agent of the 
machine which Warner hoped was to change the face of 
the globe to the only practical utility it possessed to the 
mount eba nk’s comprehension. 

* 


330 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


CHAPTER Y. 

The Meeting of Hastings and Katherine. 

The next morning, while Edward was engaged in levy- 
ing from his opulent citizens all the loans he could ext^’act, 
knowing that gold is the sinew of war — while Worcester 
was manning the fortress of the Tower, in which the 
queen, then near her confinement, was to reside during 
the campaign — while Gloucester was writing commissions 
to captains and barons to raise men — while Sir Anthony 
Lord Rivers was ordering improvements in his dainty 
damasquine armor — and the whole Fortress Palatine was 
animated and alive with the stir of the coming strife — 
Lord Hastings escaped from the bustle, and repaired to 
the house of Katherine! With what motive, with what 
intentions, was not known clearly to himself; — perhaps, 
for there was bitterness in his very love for Katherine, to 
enjoy the retaliation due to his own wounded pride, and 
say to the idol of his youth, as he had said to Gloucester 
— “Time is — time was;^^ — perhaps with some remem 
brance of the faith due to Sibyll, wakened up the more 
now that Katherine seemed actually to escape from the 
ideal image into the real woman — to be easily wooed and 
won. But, certainly, Sibyll’s cause was not wholly lost, 
though greatly shaken and endangered, when Lord 
Hastings alighted at Lady Bonville’s gate ; but his face 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 331 

gradually grew paler, his mien less assured, as he drew 
near and nearer to the apartment and the presence of the 
widowed Katherine. 

She was seated alone, and in the same room in which 
he had last seen her. Her deep mourning only served, 
by contrasting the pale and exquisite clearness of her 
complexion, to enhance her beauty. Hastings bowed 
low, and seated himself by her side in silence. 

The Lady of Bonville eyed him for some moments with 
an unutterable expression of melancholy and tenderness. 
All her pride seemed to have gone ; the very character 
of her face was changed : grave severity had become 
soft timidity, and stately self-control was broken into the 
unmistakeii struggle of hope and fear. 

Hastings — William she said, in a gentle and low 
whisper, and at the sound of that last name from those 
lips, the noble felt his veins thrill and his heart throb. 
“ If,’’ she continued, “the step I have taken seems to thee 
unwomanly and too bold, know, at least, what was my 
design and my excuse. There was a time ” (and Kathe- 
rine blushed) “ when, thou knowest well, that, had this 
hand been mine to bestow, it would have been his who 
claimed the half of this ring.” And Katherine took from 
a small crystal casket the well-remembered token. 

“ The broken ring foretold but the broken troth,” said 
Hastings, averting his face. 

“ Thy conscience rebukes thy words,” replied Kathe- 
rine sadly ; “ I pledged my faith, if thou couldst win my 
father’s word. What maid, and that maid a Nevile, 


332 THfi LAST OF THE BARONS. 

could SO forget duty and honor as to pledge thee more ? 
We were severed. Pass— -oh, pass over that time ! My 
father loved me dearly ; but when did pride and ambition 
ever deign to take heed of the wild fancies of a girl’s 
heart ? Three suitors, wealthy lords, — whose alliance 
gave strength to my kindred, in the day when their very 
lives depended on their swords, — were rivals for Earl 
Salisbury’s daughter. Earl Salisbury bade his daughter 
choose. Thy great friend, and my own kinsman, Duke 
Richard of York, himself pleaded for thy rivals. He 
proved to me that my disobedience — if, indeed, for the 
first time, a child of my house could disobey its chief— 
would be an eternal barrier to thy fortune ; that while 
Salisbury was thy foe, he himself could not advance thy 
valiancy and merit; that it was with me to forward thy 
ambition, though I could not reward thy love ; that from 
the hour I was another’s, my mighty kinsmen themselves 
— for they were generous — would be the first to aid the 
duke in thy career. Hastings, even tlien I would have 
prayed, at least, to be the bride, not of man, but God; 

But I was trained — as what noble demoiselle is not ? to 

submit wholly to a parent’s welfare and his will. As a 
nun, I could but pray for the success of my father’s cause ; 
as a wife, I should bring to Salisbury and to York the 
retainers and the strongholds of a baron I I obeyed. 
Hear me on. Of the three suitors for my hand, two were 
young and gallant— women deemed them fair and comely ; 
and had my choice been one of these, thou mightest have 
deemed that a new love had cluised the old. Since choice 


333 


the last of the barons. 

was mine, I chose the man love could not choose, and 
took this sad comfort to my heart — the forsaken 
Hastings, will see, in my very choice, that I was but the 
slave of duty — my choice itself my penance.’” 

Katherine paused, and tears dropped fast from hei 
eyes. Hastings held his hand over his countenance, and 
only by the heaving of his heart was his emotion visible. 
Katherine resumed : — 

Once wedded, I knew what became a wife. We met 
again ; and to thy first disdain and anger— (which it had 
been dishonor in me to sooth by one word that said, 
'The wife remembers the maiden’s love’) — to these, thy 
first emotions, succeeded the more cruel revenge, which 
would have changed sorrow and struggle to remorse and 
shame. And then, then — weak woman that I was — I 
wrapped myself in scorn and pride. Nay, I felt deep 
anger was it unjust ? — that thou couldst so misread, and 
so repay, the heart which had nothing left, save virtue, 
to compensate for love. And yet, yet, often when thou 
didst deem me most hard, most proof against memory 
and feeling but why relate the trial ? Heaven sup- 

ported me, and if thou lovest me no longer, thou canst 
not despise me.” 

At these last words Hastings was at her feet, bending 
over her hand, and stifled by his emotions. Katherine 
gazed at him for a moment through her own tears, and 
then resumed: — 

“ But thou hadst, as man, consolations no woman would 
desire or covet. And oh, what grieved me most was, 

3d 


334 THE LAST or THE BARONS. 

not— no, not the jealous, the wounded vanity, but it was 
at least this self-accusation, this remorse, that — but for 
one goading remembrance, of love returned and love 
forsaken, — thou hadst never so descended from thy 
younger nature, never so trifled with the solemn trust of 
Time. Ah, when I have heard, or seen, or fancied one 
fault in thy maturer manhood, unworthy of thy bright 
youth, anger of myself has made me bitter and stern to 
thee ; and if I taunted, or chid, or vexed thy pride, how 
little didst thou know that through the too shrewish 
humor spoke the too soft remembrance 1 For this — for 
this ; and believing that through all, alas I my image was 
not replaced — when my hand was free, I was grateful 
that I might still — ” (the lady’s pale cheek grew brighter 
than the rose, her voice faltered, and became low and in- 
distinct) — “I might still think it mine to atone to thee 
for the past. And if,” she added, with a sudden and 
generous energy, “ if in this I have bowed my pride, it is 
because by pride thou wert wounded ; and now, at last, 
thou hast a just revenge.” 

O terrible rival for thee, lost Sibyll I Was it wonder- 
ful that, while that head drooped upon his breast, while 
in that enchanted change which Love the softener makes 
in lips long scornful, eyes long proud and cold, he felt 
that Katherine Nevile — tender, gentle, frank without 
boldness, lofty without arrogance — had replaced the 
austere dame of Bonville, whom he half-hated while he 
wooed, — oh, was it wonderful that the soul of Hastings 
fled back to the old time, forgot the intervening vows, 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 335 

and more chill affections, and repeated only with passion- 
ate lips— “ Katherine, loved still, loved ever — mine, mine, 
at last I ” 

Then followed delicious silence— then vows, confessions, 
questions, answers — the thrilling interchange of hearts 
long divided, and now rushing into one. And time rolled 
on, till Katherine, gently breaking from her lover, said — 

“And now, that thou hast the right to know and guide 
My projects, approve, I pray thee, my present purpose. 
War awaits thee, and we must part awhile I ’’ At these 
words her brow darkened, and her lip quivered. “ Oh, 
that I should have lived to mourn the day when Lord 
Warwick, untrue to Salisbury and to York, joined his 
arms with Lancaster and Margaret — the day when 
Katherine could blush for the brother she had deemed 
the glory of her house I No, no” (she continued, as 
Hastings interrupted her with generous excuses for the 
earl, and allusion to the known slights he had received), 
— “ No, no ; make not his cause the worse, by telling me 
that an unworthy pride, the grudge of some thwart to 
his policy or power, has made him forget what was due 
to the memory of his kinsman York, to the mangled 
corpse of his father Salisbury. Thinkest thou, that but 

for this, I could ” She stopped, but Hastings divined 

her thought, and guessed that, if spoken, it had run thus : 
“ that I could, even now, have received the homage of 
one who departs to meet, with banner and clarion, my 
brother as his foe ? ” The lovely sweetness of the late 
expression had gone from Katherine’s face, and its aspect 


336 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

showed that her higli and ancestral spirit had yielded but 
to one passion. She pursued — 

“ While this strife lasts, it becomes my widowhood, and 
kindred position with the earl, to retire to the convent 
my mother founded. To-morrow I depart.^’ 

“Alas!” said Hastings, “thou speakest of the strife 
as if but a single field. But Warwick returns not to 
these shores, nor bows himself to league with Lancaster, 
— for a chance hazardous and desperate, as Edward too 
rashly deems it. It is in vain to deny that the earl is 
prepared for a grave and lengthened war, and much I 
doubt whether Edward can resist his power ; for the 
idolatry of the very land will swell the ranks of so dread 
a rebel. What if he succeed — what if we be driven into 
exile, as Henry’s friends before us — what if the king- 
maker be the king-dethroner ? — then, Katherine, then 
once more thou wilt be as the hest of thy hostile kindred, 
and once more, dowered as thou art, and thy woman- 
hood still in its richest bloom, thy hand will be lost to 
Hastings.” 

“Nay, if that be all thy fear, take with thee this 
pledge — that Warwick’s treason to the house for which 
my father fell, dissolves his power over one driven to dis- 
own him as a brother, — knowing Earl Salisbury, had he 
foreseen such disgrace, had disowned him as a son. And 
if there be defeat, and flight, and exile, — wherever thou 
wanderest, Hastings, shall Katherine be found beside 
thee Fare thee well, and our Lady shield thee: may 
thy lance be victorious against all foes — save one. Thou 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 337 

wilt forbear my that is, the earlP"' And Katherine, 

softened at that thought, sobbed aloud. 

“And come triumph or defeat, I have thy pledge ? 
said Hastings, soothing her. 

“ See,’^ said Katherine, taking the broken ring from 
the casket ; “ now, for the first time since I bore the 
name of Bonville, I lay this relic on my heart — art thou 
answered ? 


CHAPTER YI. 

Hastings learns what has befallen Sibyll — Repairs to the King, 
and encounters an old rival. 

“ It is destiny,” said Hastings to himself, when early 
the next morning he was on his road to the farm — “ It is 
destiny — and who can resist his fate?” 

“ It is destiny I ” — phrase of the weak human heart I 
“ It is destiny 1 ” dark apology for every error ! The 
strong and the virtuous admit no destiny ! On earth, 
guides Conscience — in heaven watches God. And Des- 
tiny is but the phantom we invoke to silence the one — 
to dethrone the other. 

Hastings spared not his good steed. With great diffi- 
culty had he snatched a brief respite from imperious busi- 
ness, to accomplish the last poor duty now left to him to 

fulfil to confront the maid whose heart he had seduced 

in vain, and say, at length, honestly and firmly— “ I can- 
not wed thee. Forget me, and farewell.” 

TI— 29 


w 


338 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


Doubtless, his learned and ingenious mind conjured up 
softer words than these, and more purfled periods wherein 
to dress the iron truth. But in these two sentences the 
truth lay. He arrived at the farm — he entered the house 
— he felt it as a^ reprieve, that he met not the bounding 
step of the welcoming Sibyll. He sat down in the hum- 
ble chamber, and waited awhile in patience — no voice 
was heard. The silence at length surprised and alarmed 
him. He proceeded farther. He was met by the widowed 
owner of the house, who was weeping ; and her first greet- 
ing prepared him for what had chanced. “ Oh, my lord, 
you have com'^e to tell me they are safe — they have not 
fallen into the hands of their enemies — the good gentle- 
man, so meek — the poor lady, so fair!” 

Hastings stood aghast — a few sentences more explained 
all that he already guessed. A strange man had arrived 
the evening before at the house, praying Adam and his 
daughter to accompany him to the Lord Hastings, who 
had been thrown from his horse, and was now in a cot- 
tage in the neighboring lane— not hurt dangerously, but 
unable to be removed — and who had urgent matters to 
communicate. Not questioning the truth of this story, 
Adam and Sibyll had hurried forth, and returned no 
more. Alarmed by their long absence, the widow, who 
had first received the message from the stranger, went 
herself to the cottage, and found that the story was a 
fable. Every search had since been made for Adam and 
his daughter, but in vain. The widow, confirmed in her 
previous belief that her lodgers had been attainted Lan- 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


339 


castrians, could but suppose that they had been thus be- 
trayed to their enemies. Hastings heard this with a dis- 
may and remorse impossible to express. His only con- 
jecture was, that the king had discovered their retreat, 
and taken this measure to break off the intercourse he 
had so sternly denounced. Full of these ideas, he hastily 
remounted, and stopped not till once more at the gates 
-of the Tower. Hastening to Edward’s closet, the mo- 
ment he saw the king, he exclaimed, in great emotion — 
“ My liege — my liege, do not, at this hour, when I have 
need of my whole energy to serve thee, do not madden 
my brain, and palsy my arm. This old man — the poor 
maid — Sibyll — Warner — speak, my liege — only tell me 
they are safe — promise me they shall go free, and I swear 
to obey thee in all else I I will thank thee in the battle- 
field ! ” 

“ Thou art mad, Hastings ! ” said the king, in great 
astonishment. — “ Hush I ” and he glanced significantly at 
a person who stood before several heaps of gold, ranged 
upon a table in the recess of the room. — “ See,” he whis- 
pered, “ yonder is the goldsmith, who hath brought me a 
loan from himself and his fellows ! — Pretty tales for the 
city thy folly will send abroad ! ” 

But before Hastings could vent his impatient answer, 
this person, to Edward’s still greater surprise, had ad- 
vanced from his place, and forgetting all ceremony, had 
seized Hastings by the hem of his surcoat, exclaiming — 

‘‘ My lord, my lord — what new horror is this ? — Sybill ! 
methought she was worthless, and had fled to thee I ” 


340 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

“ Ten thousand devils ! ’’ shouted the king — “Am I 
ever to be tormented by that damnable wizard and his 
witch child ? And is it, Sir Peer and Sir Goldsmith, in 
your king’s closet that ye come, the very eve before he 
marches to battle, to speer and glower at each other like 
two madmen as ye are ? ” 

Neither peer nor goldsmith gave way, till the courtier, 
naturally recovering himself the first, fell on his knee, 
and said, with firm, though profound respect — “ Sire, if 
poor William Hastings has ever merited from the king 
one kindly thought, one generous word, forgive now what- 
ever may displease thee in his passion or his suit, and tell 
him what prison contains those whom it would for ever 
dishonor his knighthood to know punished and endan- 
gered but for his offence.” 

“ My lord ! ” answered the king, softened, but still sur- 
prised, “ think you seriously that I, who but reluctantly, 
in this lovely moifth, leave ray green lawns of Shene, to 
save a crown, could have been vexing my brain by stra-. 
tagems to seize a lass — whom I swear by St. George I 
do not envy thee in the least ? If that does not suffice, 
incredulous dullard, why then take my kingly word, never 
before passed for so slight an occasion, that I know no-, 
thing whatsoever of thy damsel’s whereabout — nor her 
» pestilent father’s — where they abode of late — where they 

now be — and, what is more, if any man has usurped his 
king’s right to imprison the king’s subjects, find him out, 
and .name his punishment. Art thou convinced ? ” 

“ I am, my liege,” said Hastings. 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS, 341 

“But ” began the goldsmith. 

“ Holloa, you, too, sir 1 This is too much ! We have 
condescended to answer the man who arms three thou- 
sand retainers — 

“And I, please your highness, bring you the gold to 
pay them,” said the trader, bluntly. 

The king bit his lip, and then burst into his usual 
merry laugh. 

“ Thou art in the right. Master Alwyn. Finish count- 
ing the pieces, and then go and consult with my cham- 
berlain — he must off with the cock-crow — but, since ye 
seem to understand each other, he shall make thee his 
lieutenant of search, and I will sign any order he pleases, 
for the recovery of the lost wisdom and the stolen beauty. 
Go and calm thyself, Hastings.” 

“I will attend you presently, my lord,” said Alwyn, 
aside, “in your own apartment.” 

“Do so,” said Hastings; and, grateful for the king^s 
consideration, he sought his rooms. There, indeed, 
Alwyn soon joined him, and learned from the nobleman 
what filled him at once with joy and terror. Knowing 
that Warner and Sibyll had left the Tower, he had sur- 
mised that the girl’s virtue had at last succumbed, and it 
^delighted him to hear from Lord Hastings, whose word 
to men was never questionable, the solemn assurance of 
her unstained chastity. But he trembled at this mys- 
terious disappearance, and knew not to whom to impute 
the snare, till the penetration of Hastings suddenly 
alighted near, at least, to the clue. “ The Duchess of 
29* 


342 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

Bedford,” said he, “ever increasing in superstition as 
danger increases, may have desired to re-find so great a 
scholar, and reputed an astrologer and magician — if so, 
all is safe. On the other hand, her favorite, the friar, 
ever bore a jealous grudge to poor Adam, and may have 
sought to abstract him from her grace’s search — here, 
there may be molestation to Adam, but surely no danger 
to Sibyll. Harkye, Alwyn — thou lovest the maid more 

worthily, and ” Hastings stopped short — for such 

is infirm human nature, that, though he, had mentally re- 
signed Sibyll for ever, he could not yet calmly face the 
thought of resigning her to a rival. “ Thou lovest her,” 
he renewed, more coldly, “ and to thee, therefore, I may 
safely trust the search, which time, and circumstance, and 
a soldier’s duty forbid to me. And believe — oh, believe, 
that I say not this from a passion which may move thy 
jealousy, but rather with a brother’s holy love. If thou 
canst but see her safe, and lodged where nor danger nor 
wrong can find her, thou hast no friend in the wide world 
whose service through life thou mayest command like 
mine.” 

“ My lord,” said Alwyn, drily, “ I want no friends I 
Young as I am, I have lived long enough to see that 
friends follow fortune, but never make it I I will find 
this poor maid and her honored father, if I spend my 
last groat on the search. Get me but such an order 
from the king as may place the law at my control, and 
awe even her Grace of Bedford — and I promise the 
rest ! ” 


the last op the barons. 343 

Hastings, much relieved, deigned to press the gold- 
smith’s reluctant hand ; and, leaving him alone for a few 
minutes, returned with a warrant from the king, which 
seemed, to Alwyn, suflQciently precise and authoritative. 
The goldsmith then departed, and first he sought the 
friar, but found him not at home. Bungey had taken 
with him, as was his wont, the keys of his mysterious 
apartment. Alwyn then hastened elsewhere, to secure 
those experienced in such a search, and to head it in 
person. At the Tower, the evening was passed in bustle 
and excitement — the last preparations for departure. 
The queen, who was then far advanced towards her con- 
finement, was, as we before said, to remain at the Tower, 
which was now strongly manned. Roused from her 
wonted apathy by the imminent dangers that awaited 
Edward, the night was passed by her in tears and prayers 

— by him, in the sound sleep of confident valor. The 
next morning departed for the north the several leaders 

— Gloucester, Rivers, Hastings, and the king. 


344 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


CHAPTER yil. 

The landing of Lord Warwick, and the events that ensue thereon 

And Charles the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, “ prepared 
such a greate navie as lightly hath not been seene before 
gathered in manner of all nations, which armie laie at 
the mouth of the Seyne ready to fight with the Earle of 
Warwick, when he should set out of his harborowe.’”*' 

But the winds fought for the Avenger. In the night 
came “ a terrible tempest,’’ which scattered the duke’s 
ships “ one from another, so that two of them were not 
in compagnie together in one place;” and when the 
tempest had done its work, it passed away, and the gales 
were fair, and the heaven was clear. When, the next 
day, the earl “ halsed up the sayles,” and came in sight 
of Dartmouth. 

It was not with an army of foreign hirelings that Lord 
Warwick set forth on his mighty enterprise. Scanty in- 
deed were the troops he brought from France for he 

had learned from England that “ men, so much daily and 
hourely desired and wished so sore his arrival and return, 
that almost all men were in harness, looking for his 


* Hall, p. 282, ed. 1809. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS 345 

landyng.’’* As his ships neared the coast, and the banner 
of the Ragged Staff, worked in gold, shone in the sun, 
the shores swarmed with armed crowds, not to resist but 
to welcome. From cliff to cliff, wide and far, blazed re- 
joicing bonfires ; and from cliff to cliff, wide and far, 
burst the shout, when, first of all his men, bareheaded, 
but, save the burgonot, in complete mail, the popular 
hero leapt to shore. 

When the earle had taken land, he made a proclama- 
tion in the name of King Henry VI., upon high paynes, 
commanding and charging all men apt or able to bear 

* The popular feeling in favor of the earl is described by Hall, 
with somewhat more eloquence and vigor than are common with 
that homely chronicler: — “The absence of the Earle of Warwick 
made the common people daily more and more to long, and bee 
desirous to have the sight of him, and presently to behold his per- 
sonage. For they judged that the sunne was clerely taken from 
the world when hee was absent. In such high estimation, amongst 
the people, was his name, that neither no one manne, they had in 
80 much honor, neither no one persone they so much praised, or, 
to the clouds, so highly extolled. What shall I say? His only 
name sounded in every song, in the mouth of the common people, 
and his persone [effigies] was represented with great reverence 
when publique plaies or open triumphes should bee shewed or set 
furthe abrode in the stretes,” &c. This lively passage, if not too 
highly colored, serves to show us the rude saturnalian kind of 
liberty that existed, even under a king so vindictive as Edward IV. 
Though an individual might be hanged for the jest that he would 
make his son heir to the crown (viz., the grocer’s shop, which bore 
that sign), yet no tyranny couM deal with the sentiment of the 
masses. In our own'" day, it would be less safe than in that, to 
make public exhibition “in plaies and triumphes,” of sympathy 
with a man, attainted as a traitor, and in open rebellion to the 
crown ! 


346 


the last or THE BARONS. 

armour, to prepare themselves to fight against Edward, 
Duke of Yjrk, who had untruly usurped the.croune and 
dignity of this realm.” * 

And where was Edward? — afar, following the forces 
of Eitzhugh and Robin of Redesdale, who, by artful 
retreat, drew him farther and farther northward, and left 
all the other quarters of the kingdom free, to send their 
thousands to the banners of Lancaster and Warwick. 
And even as the news of the earl’s landing reached the 
king, it spread also through all the towns of the north — 
and all the towns of the north were in “ a great rore, and 
made fires, and sang songs, crying — ‘ King Henry — King 
Henry I a Warwicke — a Warwicke I’” But his warlike 
and presumptuous spirit forsook not the chief of that 
bloody and fatal race— the line of the English Pelops — 
“bespattered with kindred gore.”f A messenger from 
Burgundy was in his tent when the news reached him. 
“Back to the duke!” cried Edward; “tell him tore- 
collect his navy, guard the sea, scour the streams, that 
the earl shall not escape, nor return to France — for the 
doings in England, let me alone I I have ability and 
puissance to overcome all enemies and rebels in mine ow^ 
realm.” J 

And therewith he raised his camp, abandoned the pur- 
suit of Fitzhugh, summoned Montagu to join him, (it 
being now safer to hold the marquis near him, and near 
the axe, if his loyalty became suspected), and marched 


* Hall, p. 82. 


f .®sch. Again. 


X Hall, p. 283. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 347 

on to meet the earl. Nor did the earl tarry from the en- 
counter. His army, swelling as he passed — and as men 
read his proclamations to reform all grievances and right 
all wrongs — he pressed on to meet the king, while fast 
and fast upon Edward's rear came the troops of Fitzhugh 
and Hilyard ; no longer flying but pursuing. The king 
was the more anxious to come up to Warwick, inasmuch 
as he relied greatly upon the treachery of Clarence, either 
secretly to betray or openly to desert the earl. And he 
knew that if he did the latter on the eve of a battle, it 
could not fail morally to weaken Warwick, and dishearten 
his army by fear that desertion should prove, as it ever 
does, the most contagious disease that can afflict a camp. 
It is probable, however, that the enthusiasm which had 
surrounded the earl with volunteers so numerous, had far 
exceeded the anticipations of the inexperienced Clarence, 
and would have forbid him that opportunity of betraying 
the earl. However this be, the rival armies drew near 
and nearer. The king halted in his rapid march at a 
small village, and took up his quarters in a fortified 
house, to which there was no access but by a single 
bridge.* Edward himself retired for a short time to his 
couch, for he had need of all his strength in the battle 
he foresaw. But scarce had he closed his eyes, when 
Alexander Carlile, f the serjeant of the royal minstrels, 
followed by Hastings and Rivers (their jealousy laid at 
rest for a time in the sense of their king’s danger), 
rushed into his room. 


* Sharon Turner. Comines. 


f Hearne’s Fragment. 


348 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

“Arm, sire, arm I — Lord Montagu has thrown ofif the 
mask, and rides through thy troops, shouting ' Long live 
King Henry 1 ’ ” 

“Ah, traitor!” cried the king, leaping from his bed. 
“ From Warwick, hate was my due — but not from Mon* 
tagu ! Rivers, help buckle on my mail. Hastings, post 
my body-guard at the bridge. We will sell our lives 
dear.” 

Hastings vanished, Edward had scarcely hurried on 
his helm, cuirass, and greaves, when Gloucester entered, 
calm in the midst of peril. 

“Your enemies are marching to seize you, brother. 
Hark I behind you rings the cry, ‘ A Fitzhugh — a Robin 

— death to the tyrant!’ Hark! in front, ‘A Montagu 

— a Warwick — Long live King Henry!’ I come to 
redeem my word — to share your exile or your death. 
Choose either while there is yet time. Thy choice is 
mine ! ” 

And while he spoke, behind, before, came the various 
cries near and nearer. The lion of March was in the 
toils. 

“ Now, my two-handed sword ! ” said Edward. “ Glou- 
cester, in this weapon learn my choice ! ” 

But now all the principal barons and captains, still 
true to the king, whose crown was already lost, flocked 
in a body to the chamber. They fell on their knees, and 
with tears implored him to save himself for a happier day. 

“ There is yet time to escape,” said D’Eyncourt — “to 
pa#the bridge — to gain the sea-port ! Think not that 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS 349 

a soldier’s death will be left thee. Numbers will suffice 
to encumber thine arm — to seize thy person. Live not 
to be Warwick’s prisoner — shown as a wild beast in its 
cage to the hooting crowd I ” 

“If not on thyself,” exclaimed Rivers, “have pity on 
these loyal gentlemen, and for the sake of their lives pre- 
serve thine own. What is flight? Warwick fled P' 
“True — and returned!'^ added Gloucester. “You 
are right, my lords. Come, sire, we must fly. Our rights 
fly not with us, but shall fight for us in absence ! ” 

The calm will of this strange and terrible boy had its 
effect upon Edward. He suffered his brother to lead 
him from the chamber, grinding his teeth in impotent 
rage. He mounted his horse, while Rivers held the 
stirrup, and, with some six or seven knights and earls, 
rode to the bridge, already occupied by Hastings and a 
small but determined guard. 

“ Come, Hastings,” said the king, with a ghastly 
smile — “they tell us we must fly!” 

“True, sire, haste — haste ! I stay but to deceive the 
enemy by feigning to defend the pass, and to counsel, as 
I best may, the faithful soldiers we leave behind.” 

“ Brave Hastings 1 ” said Gloucester, pressing his hand, 
“you do well, and I envy you the glory of this post. 
Come, sire.” 

“Ay — ay,” said the king, with a sudden and fierce 
cry, “ we go — but at least slaughtering as we go. See I 
yon rascal troop ! — ride we through the midst. Havock 
and revenge!” 

II. — 30 


350 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

He Svjt spurs to his steed, galloped over the bridge, 
and, before his companions could join him, dashed alone 
into the very centre of the advanced guard sent to invest 
the fortress; and while they were yet shouting — “Where 
is the tyrant — where is Edward?” 

“ Here I” answered a voice of thunder — “here, rebels 
and faytors, in your ranks ! ” 

This sudden and appalling reply, even more than the 
sweep of the gigantic sword, before which were riven 
sallet and mail, as the woodman^s axe rives the faggot, 
created amongst the enemy that singular panic, which in 
those ages often scattered numbers before the arm and 
the name of one. They recoiled in confusion and dis- 
may. Majiy actually threw down their arms and fled. 
Through a path broad and clear, amidst the forest of 
pikes, Gloucester and the captains followed the flashing 
track of the king, over the corpses, headless or limbless, 
that he felled as he rode. 

Meanwhile, with a truer chivalry, Hastings, taking 
advantage of the sortie which confused and delayed the 
enemy, summoned such of the loyal as were left in the 
fortress, advised them, as the only chance of life, to affect 
submission to Warwick ; but when the time came, to 
remember their old allegiance,* and promising that he 
would not desert them, save with life, till their safety was 
pledged by the foe, reclosed his visor, and rode back to 
the front of the bridge. 


^ Shi^ron Turner, vol. iii. 289. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 351 

And now the king and his comrades had cut their way 
through all barrier, but the enemy still wavered and 
lagged, till suddenly the cry of “ Robin of Redesdale ! ” 
was heard, and sword in hand, Hilyard, followed by a 
troop of horse, dashed to the head of the besiegers, and 
learning the king’s escape, rode off in pursuit. His brief 
presence and sharp rebuke reanimated the falterers, and 
in a few minutes they gained the bridge. 

“ Halt, sirs,” cried Hastings ; “ I would offer capitu- 
lation to your leader I Who is he?” 

A knight on horseback advanced from the rest. 

Hastings lowered the point of his sword. 

“ Sir, we yield this fortress to your hands upon one 
condition — our men yonder are willing to submit, and 
shout with you for Henry YL Pledge me your word 
that you and your soldiers spare their lives, and do them 
no wrong, and we depart.” 

“And if I pledge it not?” said the knight. 

“Then for every warrior who guards this bridge count 
ten dead men amongst your ranks.” 

“ Do your worst — our bloods are up I We want life 
for life I — revenge for the subjects butchered by your 
tyrant chief I Charge I to the attack — charge ! pike and 
bill I ” The knight spurred on, the Lancastrians followed, 
and the knight reeled from his horse into the moat below, 
felled by the sword of Hastings. 

For several minutes the pass was so gallantly defended 
that the strife seemed uncertain, though fearfully unequal, 
when Lord Montagu himself, hearing what had befallen. 


352 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


galloped to the spot, threw down his truncheon, cried 

Hold ! ” and the slaughter ceased. To this nobleman, 
Hastings repeated the terms he had proposed. 

“And,’^ said Montagn, turning with anger to the Lan- 
castrians, who formed a detachment of Fitzhugh’s force 
— “ can Englishmen insist upon butchering Englishmen ? 
Rather thank we Lord Hastings, that he would spare 
good King Henry so many subjects’ lives ! The terms 
are granted, my lord ; and your own life also, and those 
of your friends around you, vainly brave in a wrong 
cause. Depart I ” 

“Ah, Montagu,” said Hastings, touched, and in a 
whisper, “ what pity that so gallant a gentleman should 
leave a rebel’s blot upon his scutcheon.” 

“ When chiefs and suzerains are false and perjured, 
Lord Hastings,” answered Montagu, “to obey them is 
not loyalty, but serfdom ; and revolt is not disloyalty, but 
a freeman’s duty. One day thou mayst know that truth, ■ 
but too late ! ” * 

Hastings made no reply — waved his hand to his fellow- 
defenders of the bridge, and, followed by them, went 
slowly and deliberately on, till clear of the murmuring 
and sullen foe ; then putting spurs to their steeds, these 
faithful warriors rode fast to rejoin their king ; overtook 
Hilyard on the way, and after a fierce skirmish, a blow 
from Hastings unhorsed and unhelmed the stalwart 
Robin, and left him so stunned as to check further 

* U was ill the midst of liis own conspiracy against Richard of 
Gloucester tliat the head of Lord Hastings fell. 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 35^ 

pursuit. They at last reached the king*, and gaining, 
with him and his party, the town of Lynn, happily found 
one English and two Dutch vessels on the point of sail- 
ing; without other raiment than the mail they wore — 
without money, the men, a few hours before hailed as 
sovereign or as peers, fled from their native land as out- 
casts and paupers. New dangers beset them on the sea ; 
the ships of the Easterlings, at war both with France 
and England, bore down upon their vessels. At the risk 
of drowning, they ran ashore near Alcmaer. The large 
ships of the Easterlings followed as far as the low watei 
would permit, “intendeing at the fludde to have obtained 
their prey.” * In this extremity, the lord of the province 
(Louis of Grauthuse) came aboard their vessels — pro- 
tected the fugitives from the Easterlings — conducted 
them to the Hague — and apprised' the Duke of Bur- 
gundy how his brother-in-law had lost his throne. Then 
were verified Lord Warwick’s predictions of the faith of 
Burgundy I The duke, for whose alliance Edward had 
dishonored the man to whom he owed his crown, so feared 
the victorious earl, that “ he had rather have heard of 
King Edward’s death than of his discomfiture.” f And 
his first thought was to send an embassy to the king- 
maker, praying the amity and alliance of the restored 
dynasty. 


* Hall. 


f Hall, p. 279. 


30 * 


X 


354 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS 


CHAPTER yill. 

What befel Adam Warner and Sibyll, when made subject to the 
great Friar Bungey. 

We must now return to the Tower of London — not, 
indeed, to its lordly halls and gilded chambers — but to 
the room of Friar Bungey. We must go back somewhat 
in time ; and on the day following the departure of the 
king and his lords, conjure up in that strangely furnished 
apartment the form of the burly friar, standing before the 
disorganized Eureka, with Adam Warner by his side. 

Graul, as we have seen, had kept her word, and Sibyll 
and her father, having fallen into the snare, were suddenly 
gagged, bound, led through by-paths to a solitary hut, 
where a covered wagon was in waiting, and finally, at 
nightfall, conducted to the Tower. The friar, whom his 
own repute, jolly affability, and favor with the Duchess 
of Bedford, made a considerable person with the autho- 
rities of the place, had already obtained from the deputy- 
governor an order to lodge two persons, whom his zeal 
for the king sought to convict of necromantic practices 
in favor of the rebellion, in the cells set apart for such 
unhappy captives. Thither the prisoners were conducted. 
The friar did not object to their allocation in contiguous 
cells ; and the gaoler deemed him mighty kind and cha 


THE LAST Ol!’ THE BA HONS. 


355 


ritable, when he ordered that they might be well served 
and fed till their examination. 

He did not venture, however, to summon his captives 
till the departure of the king, when the Tower was, in 
fact, at the disposition of his powerful patroness, and 
when he thought he might stretch his authority as far as 
he pleased, unquestioned and unchid. 

Now, therefore, on the day succeeding Edward’s de- 
parture, Adam Warner was brought from his cell, and 
led to the chamber where the triumphant friar received 
him in majestic state. The moment Warner entered, he 
caught sight of the chaos to which his Eureka was re- 
solved, and uttering a cry of mingled grief and joy, sprang 
forward to greet his profaned treasure. The friar mo- 
tioned away the gaoler (whispering him to wait without), 
and they were left alone. Bungey listened with curious 
and puzzled attention to poor Adam’s broken interjec- 
tions of lamentation and anger, and at last, clapping him 
roughly on the back, said — 

“ Thou knowest the secret of this magical and ugly 
device ; but in thy hands it leads only to ruin and perdi- 
tion. Tell me that secret, and in my hands it shall turn 
to honor and profit. Porkey verhey! I am a man of 
few words. Ho this, and thou shalt go free with thy 
daughter, and I will protect thee, and give thee moneys, 
and my fatherly blessing refuse to do it, and thou shalt 
go from thy snug cell into a black dungeon full of newts 
and rats, where thou shalt rot till thy nails are like birds’ 


356 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

talons, and thy skin shrivelled up into mummy, and co- 
vered with hair like Nebuchadnezzar I 

“Miserable varlet I Give thee my secret — givee t?iee 
my fame — my life. Never I I scorn and spit at thy 
malice I ” 

The friar’s face grew convulsed withl’age — “Wretch 1 ” 
he roared forth, “ darest thou unslip thy houndlike ma- 
lignity upon great Bungey ? — Knowest thou not that he 
could bid the walls open and close upon thee — that he 
could set yon serpents to coil round thy limbs, and yon 
lizard to gnaw out thine entrails ? Despise not my mercy, 
and descend to plain sense. What good didst thou ever 
reap from thy engine ? — why shouldst thou lose liberty — 
nay, life — if I will, for a thing that has cursed thee with 
man’s horror and hate ? ” 

“Art thou Christian and friar to ask me why ? Were 
not Christians themselves hunted by wild beasts, and 
burned at the stake, and boiled in the caldron for their 
belief? Knave, whatever is holiest, men ever persecute 1 
Read thy bible I ” 

“ Read the bible I ” exclaimed Bungey, in pious horror 
at such a proposition — “Ah I blasphemer, now I have 
thee ! — Thou art a heretic and Lollard — Hollo there I ” 

The friar stamped his foot — the door opened, but to 
his astonishment and dismay appeared, not the grim 
gaoler, but the Duchess of Bedford herself, preceded by 
Nicholas Alwyn. 

“ I told your grace truly — see lady 1 ” cried the gold- 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 357 

smith — “ Yile impostor, where hast thou hidden this 
wise man’s daughter ? ” 

The friar turned his dull, bead-like eyes in vacant con-' 
sternation, from Nicholas to Adam, from Adam to the 
duchess. 

“ Sir friar,” said Jacquetta, mildly — for she wished to 
conciliate the rival seers — “ what means this overzealous 
violatiou of law ? Is it true, as Master Alwyn affirms, 
that thou hast stolen away and seducted this venerable 
sage and his daughter — a maid I deemed worthy of a 
post in my own household ? ” 

“Daughter and lady,” said the friar, sullenly, “this 
ill-faytor, I have reason to know, has been practising 
spells for Lord Warwick and the enemy, I did but sum- 
mon him hither that my art might undo his charms ; and 
as for his daughter, it seemed more merciful to let her 
attend him, than to leave her alone and unfriended ; spe- 
cially,” added the friar, with a grin, “ since the poor lord 
she hath witched is gone to the wars.” 

“ It is true then, wretch, that thou or thy caitiffs have 
dared to lay hands on a maiden of birth and blood I ” 
exclaimed Alwyn. “ Tremble 1 — see, here, the warrant 
signed by the king, offering a reward for thy detection, 
empowering me to give thee up to the laws. By St. Dun- 
stan ! but for thy friar’s frock, thou shouldst hang.” 

“Tut — tut. Master Goldsmith!” said the duchess, 
haughtily — lower thy tone. This holy man is under my 
protection, and his fault was but over-zeal. What were 
this sage’s devices and spells?” 


358 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


“ Marry ! ” said the friar, gruffly — “ that is what your 
grace just hindereth my knowing. But he cannot deny 
that he is a pestilent astrologer, and sends word to the 
rebels what hours are lucky or fatal for battle and as- 
sault.” 

“ Ha I ” said the duchess, “ he is an astrologer 1 true, 
and came nearer to the alchemist’s truth than any multi- 
plier that ever served me I My own astrologer is just 
dead — why died he at such a time ? Peace — peace 1 be 
there peace between two so learned men 1 Forgive thy 
brother. Master Warner!” 

Adam had hitherto disdained all participation in this 
dialogue. In fact, he had returned to the Eureka, and 
was silently examining if any loss of the vital parts had' 
occurred in its melancholy dismemberment. But now he 
turned round, and said, “ Lady, leave the lore of the 
stars to their great Maker. I forgive this man, and 
thank your grace for your justice. I claim these poor 
fragments, and crave your leave to suffer me to depart 
with my device and my child.” 

“No — no!” said the duchess, seizing his hand. 
“ Hist ! whatever Lord Warwick paid thee, I will double. 
No time now for alchemy; but for the horoscope, it is 
the veriest season. I name thee my special astrologer !” 

“Accept — accept!” whispered Alwyn : “for your 
daughter’s sake— for your own— nay, for the Eureka’s ! ” 

Adam bowed his head, and groaned forth — “ But I go 
not hence — no, not a foot — unless (his goes with me. 
Cruel wretch, how he hath deformed it ! ” 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 359 

‘‘And now,” cried Alwyn, eagerly, “this wronged and 
unhappy maiden?” 

“ Go ! be it thine to release and bring her to our pre- * 
sence, good Alwyn,” said the duchess ; “ she shall lodge 
with her father, and receive all honor. Follow me. 
Master Warner!” 

No sooner, however, did the friar perceive that Alwyn 
had gone in search of the jailor, than he arrested the 
steps of the duchess, and said with the air of a much- 
injured man — 

“ May it please your grace to remember, that unless 
the greater magician have all power, and aid in thwarting 
the lesser, the lesser can prevail ; and therefore, if your 
grace finds, when too late, that Lord Warwick’s or Lord 
Fitzhugh’s arms prosper — that woe and disaster befall 
the king — say not it was the fault of Friar Bungey 1 — 
such things may be ! Nathless I shall still sweat, and 
watch, and toil ; and if, despite your unhappy favor and 
encouragement to this hostile sorcerer, the king should 
beat his enemies, why then, Friar Bungey is not so power- 
less as your grace holds him. I have said — Po7'key 
verhey ! — VigHabo et conabo — et perspirabo — et liun- 
gerabo — pro vos et vestros, Amen P' 

The duchess was struck by this eloquent appeal ; but 
more and more convinced of tlie dread science of Adam, 
by the evident apprehensions of the redoubted Bungey, 
and firmly persuaded that she could bribe or induce the 
former to turn a science that would otherwise be hostile 
into salutary account, she contented herself with a few 


360 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

words of conciliation and compliment, and summoning 
the attendants who had followed her, bade them take up 
the various members of the Eureka (for Adam clearly 
demonstrated that he would not depart without them), 
and conducted the philosopher to a lofty chamber, fitted 
up for the defunct astrologer. 

Hither, in a short time, Alwyn had the happiness of 
leading Sibyll, and witnessing the delighted reunion of 
the child and father. And then, after he had learned the 
brief details of their abduction, he related how, baffled 
in all attempt to trace their clue, he had convinced him- 
self that either the duchess or Bungey was the author of 
the snare, returned to the Tower, shown the king’s war- 
rant, learned that an old man and a young female had 
indeed been admitted into the fortress, and hurried at 
once to the duchess, who, surprised at his narration and 
complaint, and anxious to regain the services of Warner, 
had accompanied him at once to the friar. 

“And though,” added the goldsmith, “I could indeed 
procure you lodgings more welcome to ye elsewhere, yet 
it is well to win the friendship of the duchess, and royalty 
is ever an ill foe. How came ye to quit the palace ? ” 

Sibyll changed countenance, and her father answered 
gravely, “We incurred the king’s displeasure, and the 
excuse was the popular hatred of me and the Eureka.” 

“ Heaven made the people, and the devil makes three- 
fourths of what is popular ! ” bluntly said the Man of the 
Middle Class, ever against both extremes. 

“And how?” asked Sibyll, “how, honored and true 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS, 


361 


friend, didst thou obtain the king’s warrant, and learn the 
snare into which we had fallen ? ” 

This time it was Alwyn who changed countenance. 
He mused a moment, and then frankly answering — 
“ Thou must thank Lord Hastings,” gave the explanation 
already known to the reader. 

But the grateful tears this relation called forth from 
Sibyll, her clasped hands, her evident emotion of delight 
and love so pained poor Alwyn, that he rose abruptly, 
and took his leave. 

And now, the Eureka was a luxury as peremptorily 
forbid to the astrologer, as it had been to the alchemist I 
Again the true science was despised, and the false culti- 
vated and honored. Condemned to calculations, which 
no man (however wise) in that age, held altogether delu- 
sive, and which yet Adam Warner studied with very 
qualified belief — it happened by some of those coinci- 
dences, which have from time to time appeared to con- 
firm the credulous in judicial astrology, that Adam’s 
predictions became fulfilled. The duchess was prepared 
for the first tidings, that Edward’s foes fled before him. 
She was next prepared for the very day in which War- 
wick landed, and then her respect for the astrologer 
became strangely mingled with suspicion and terror, when 
she found that he proceeded to foretell but ominous and 
evil events ; and when, at last, still in corroboration of 
the unhappily too faithful horoscope, came the news of 
the king’s flight, and the earl’s march upon London, she 
fled to Friar Bungey in dismay. And Friar Bungey said — 
II. — 31 


36^ THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

“Did I not warn you, daughter ? Had you suffered 
me to ” 

“ True, true 1 ” interrupted the duchess. ‘‘Now take, 
hang, rack, drown, or burn your horrible rival, if you will, 
but undo the charm, and save us from the earl I ” 

The friar’s eyes twinkled, but to the first thought of 
spite and vengeance succeeded another : if he who had 
made the famous waxen effigies of the Earl of Warwick, 
were now to be found guilty of some atrocious and posi- 
tive violence upon Master Adam Warner, 'might not the 
earl be glad of so good an excuse to put an end to him- 
self? 

“Daughter,” said the friar at that reflection, and 
shaking his head mysteriously and sadly, “ daughter, it is 
too late.” 

The duchess, in great despair, flew to the queen. 
Hitherto she had concealed from her royal daughter the 
employment she had given to Adam ; for Elizabeth, who 
had herself suffered from the popular belief in Jacquetta’s 
sorceries, had of late earnestly besought her to lay aside 
all practices that could be called into question. Now, 
however, when she confessed to the agitated and distract- 
ed queen the retaining of Adam Warner, and his fatal 
predictions, Elizabeth, who, from discretion and pride, 
had carefully hidden from her mother (too vehement to 
keep a secret) that offence in the king, the memory of 
which had made Warner peculiarly obnoxious to him, 
exclaimed, “Unhappy mother, thou hast employed the 
very man my fated husband would the most carefully 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 363 

have banished from the palace, the very man who could 
blast his name.” 

The duchess was aghast and thunder-stricken. 

“ If ever I forsake Friar Bungey again I ” she mut- 
tered ; “OH, THE GREAT MAN I ” 

But events which demand a detailed recital now rap- 
idly pressing on, gave the duchess not even the time 
to seek further explanation of Elizabeth’s words, much 
less to determine the doubt that rose in her enlightened 
mind whether Adam’s spells might not be yet unravelled 
by the timely execution of the sorcerer I 


CHAPTER IX. 

The Deliberations of Mayor and Council, -while Lord Warwick 
marches upon London. 

It was a clear and bright day in the first week of 
October, 1410, when the various scouts employed by the 
mayor and council of London came back to the Guild, 
at which that worshipful corporation were assembled — 
their steeds blown and jaded, themselves panting and 
breathless — to announce the rapid march of the Earl of 
Warwick. The lord mayor of that year, Richard Lee, 
grocer and citizen, sat in the venerable hall in a huge 
leather chair, over which a pall of velvet had been thrown 
in haste, clad in his robes of state, and surrounded by his 
aldermen and the mag?mtes of the city. To the personal 


364 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


love which the greater part of the body bore to the 
young and courteous king, was added the terror which 
the corporation justly entertained of the Lancastrian fac- 
tion. They remembered the dreadful excesses which 
Margaret had permitted to her army in the year 1461 — 
what time, to use the expression of the old historian 
“the wealth of London looked pale;” and how grudg- 
ingly she had been restrained from condemning her re- 
volted metropolis to the horrors of sack and pillage. 
And the bearing of this august representation of the 
trade and power of London was not, at the first, unworthy 
of the high influence it had obtained. The agitation and 
disorder of the hour had introduced into the assembly 
several of the more active and accredited citizens, not of 
right belonging to it ; but they sat, in silent discipline 
and order, on long benches beyond the table crowded by 
the corporate officers. Foremost among these, and re- 
markable by the firmness and intelligence of his counte- 
nance, and the earnest self-possession with which he 
listened to his seniors, was Nicholas Alwyn, summoned 
to the council from his great influence with the appren- 
tices and younger freemen of the city. 

As the last scout announced his news, and was gravely 
dismissed. 

The lord mayor rose; and being, perhaps, a better 
educated man than many of the haughtiest barons, and 
having more at stake than most of them, his manner and 
language had a dignity and earnestness which might have . 
reflected honor on the higher court of parliament. 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 366 

^‘Brethren and citizens,” he said, with the decided 
brevity of one who felt it no time for many words, “in 
two hours we shall hear the clarions of Lord Warwick at 
our gates ; in two hours we shall be summoned to give 
entrance to an army assembled in the name of King 
Henry. I have done my duty— I have manned the walls 
— I have marshalled what soldiers we can command. I 
have sent to the deputy-governor of the Tower ” 

“ And what answer gives he, my lord mayor ? ” inter- 
rupted Hurafrey Heyford. 

“ None to depend upon. He answers that Edward 
lY., in abdicating the kingdom, has left him no power 
to resist ; and that between force and force, king and 
king, might makes right.” 

A deep breath, like a groan, went through the as- 
sembly. 

Up rose Master John Stokton, the mercer. He rose, 
trembling from limb to limb. 

“Worshipful, ray lord mayor,” said he, “it seems to 
me that our first duty is to look to our own selves I ” 

Despite the gravity of the emergence, a laugh burst 
forth and was at once silenced, at this frank avowal. 

“Yes,” continued the mercer, turning round, and 
striking the table with his fist, in the action of a nervous 
mail — “yes; for King Edward'has set us the example. 
A stout and a dauntless champion, whose whole youth 
has been war. King Edward has fled from the kingdom 
— King Edward takes care of himself — it is our duty to 
do the same I ” 

31 * 


366 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

Strange though it may seem, this homely selfishness 
went ai once through the assembly like a flash of con- 
viction. There was a burst of applause, and, as it 
ceased, the sullen explosion of a bombard (or cannon) 
from the city wall announced that the warder had caught 
the first glimpse of the approaching army. 

Master Stokton started as if the shot had gone near to 
himself, and dropped at once into his seat, ejaculating, 

“ The Lord have mercy upon us I ” There was a pause 
of a moment, and then several of the corporation rose 
simultaneously. The mayor, preserving his dignity, fixed 
on the sheriff. 

“ Few words, my lord, and I have done,” said Richard 
Gardyner — “there is no fighting without men. The 
troops at the Tower are not to be counted on. The 
populace are all with Lord Warwick, even though he 
brought the devil at his back. If you hold out, look to 
rape and plunder before sunset to-morrow. If ye yield,- 
go forth in a body, and the earl is not the man to suffer 
one Englishman to be injured in life or health who once 
trusts to his good faith. My say is said.” 

“Worshipful, my lord,” said a thin, cadaverous alder-i 
man, who rose next — “this is a judgment of the Lord 
and His saints. The Lollards and heretics have been too 
much suffered to run at large, and the wrath of Heaven 
is upon us.” 

All impatient murmuring attested the unwillingness of 
the larger part of the audience to listen further ; but an 
approving buzz from the elder citizens announced that 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 367 

the fanaticism was not without its favorers. Thus stimu- 
lated and encouraged, the orator continued ; and con- 
cluded an harangue, interrupted more stormily than all 
that had preceded, by an exhortation to leave the city to 
its fate, and to march in a body to the New Prison, draw 
forth five suspected Lollards, and born them at Smith- 
field, in order to appease the Almighty and divert the 
tempest I 

This subject of controversy once started, might have 
delayed the audience till the ragged staves of the War- 
wickers drove them forth from their hall, but for the 
sagacity and promptitude of the mayor. 

“ Brethren,” he said, “ it matters not to me whether 
the counsel suggested be good or bad, on the main ; but 
this have I heard, — there is small safety in death-bed re- 
pentance. It is too late now to do, through fear of the 
devil, what we omitted to do through zeal for the church. 
The sole question is, ‘Fight or make terms.’ Ye say we 
lack men — verily, yes, while no leaders are found I Wal- 
worth, ray predecessor, saved London from Wat Tyler. 
Men were wanting then till the mayor and his fellow- 
citizens marched forth to Mile End. It may be the same 
now. Agree to fight, and we’ll try it — what say you, 
Nicholas Alwyn ? — you know the temper of our young 
men.’' 

Thus called upon, Alwyn rose, and such was the good 
name he had already acquired, that every murmur hushed 
into eager silence. 

“ My lord mayor,” hh said, “ there is a proverb in my 


368 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


country which says, ‘ Fish swim best that’s bred in the 
sea ; ’ which means, I take it, that men do best what they 
are trained for ! Lord Warwick and his men are trained 
for fighting. Few of the fish about London Bridge are 
bred in that sea. Cry, ‘London to the rescue !” — put 
on hauberk and helm, and you will have crowns enough 
to crack around you. What follows ? — Master Stokton 
hath said it : pillage and rape for the city — gibbet and 
cord for mayor and aldermen. Do I say this, loving the 
house of Lancaster? No; as Heaven shall judge me, I 
think that the policy King Edward hath chosen, and 
which costs him his crown to-day, ought to make the 
house of York dear to burgess and trader. He hath 
sought to break up the iron rule of the great barons — 
and never peace to England till that be done. He has 
failed ; but for a day. He has yielded for the time ; so 
must we. ‘ There’s a time to squint, and a time to look 
even.’ I advise that we march out to the earl — that we 
make honorable terms for the city — that we take advan- 
tage of one faction to gain what we have not gained with 
the other — that we fight for our profit, not with swords 
where we shall be worsted, but in council and parliament, 
by speech and petition. New power is ever gentle and 
douce. What matters to us, York or Lancaster ? — all 
we want is good laws. Get the best we can from Lan- 
caster — and when King Edward returns, as return he 
will, let him bid higher than Henry for our love. Wor- 
shipful my lords and brethren, while barons and knaves 
go to loggerheads, honest men get their own. Time 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS 


369 


grows under us like grass. York and Lancaster may 
pull down each other — and what is left? Why three 
things that thrive in all weather^London, Industry, and 
the people I We have fallen on a rough time. Well, 
what says the proverb ? ‘Boil stones in butter, and you 
may sup the broth.’ I have done.” 

This characteristic harangue, which was fortunate 
enough to accord with the selfishness of each one, and 
yet give the manly excuse of sound sense and wise policy 
to all, was the more decisive in its effect, inasmuch as 
the young Alwyn, from his own determined courage, and 
his avowed distaste to the Lancaster faction, had been 
expected to favor warlike counsels. The mayor himself, 
who was faithfully and personally attached to Edward, 
with a deep sigh, gave way to the feeling of the assem- 
bly. And the resolution being once come to, Henry Lee 
was the first to give it whatever advantage could be de 
rived from prompt and speedy action. 

“ Go we forth at once,” said he — “go, as becomes us, 
in our robes of state, and with the insignia of the city. 
Never be it said that the guardians of the city of Lon- 
don could neither defend with spirit, nor make terms with 
honor. We give entrance to Lord Warwick. Well, then, 
it must be our own free act. Come I Officers of our 
court, advance.” 

“Stay a bit — stay a bit,” whispered Stokton, digging 
sharp claws into Alwyn’s arm — “ let them go first, — a 
word with you, cunning Nick — a word.” 

Master Stokton, despite the tremor of his nerves, was 
Y 


370 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


a man of such wealth and substance, that Alwyn might 
well take the request, thus familiarly made, as a compli- 
ment not to be received discourteously ; moreover, he 
had his own reasons for hanging back from a procession 
which his rank in the city did not require him to join. 

While, therefore, the mayor and the other dignitaries 
left the hall, with as much state and order as if not going 
to meet an invading army, but to join a holiday festival, 
Nicholas and Stokton lingered behind. 

“ Master Alwyn,” said Stokton, then, with a sly wink 
of his eye, “ you have this day done yourself great credit ; 
you will rise — I have my eye on you I I have a daughter 
— I have a daughter I Aha ! a lad like you may come 
to great things I ” 

“I am much bounden to you. Master Stokton,” re- 
turned Alwyn, somewhat abstractedly — “ but what’s your 
will ? ” 

“ My will ! — hum, I say, Nicholas, what’s your advice ? 
Quite right not to go to blows. Odds costards I that 
mayor is a very tiger ! But don’t you think it would be 
wiser not to join this procession ? Edward lY., an’ he 
ever come back, has a long memory. He deals at my 
ware, too — a good customer at a mercer’s ; and. Lord ! 
how much money he owes the city ! — hum — I would not 
seem ungrateful.” ; 

“But, if you go not out with the rest, there be other | 
mercers who will have King Henry's countenance and I 
favor ; and it is easy to see that a new court will make .1 
vast consumption in mercerv ” j 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS 3T1 

Master Stokton looked puzzled. 

“That were a hugeous pity, good Nicholas; and. 
certes, there is Wat Smith, in Eastgate, who would cheat 
that good King Henry, poor man ! which were a shame 
to the city; but, on the other hand, the Yorkists mostly 
pay on the nail (except King Edward, God save him !), 
and the Lancastrians are as poor as mice. Moreover, 
King Henry is a meek man, and does not avenge — King 
Edward, a hot and a stern man, and may call it treason 
to go with the Ked Rose I I wish I knew how to decide I 
I have a daughter, an only daughter — a buxom lass, 
and well dowered. I would I had a sharp son-in-law to 
advise me I ” 

“Master Stokton, in one word, then, he never goes 
far wrong who can run with the hare and hunt with the 
hounds. Good day to you, I have business elsewhere.” 

So saying, Nicholas, rather hastily, shook off the mer- 
cer^s quivering fingers, and hastened out of the hall. 

“Yerily,” murmured the disconsolate Stokton, “run 
with the hare, quotha I — that is, go with King Edward ; 
but hunt with the hounds — that is, go with King Henry. 
Odds costards I it’s not so easily done by a plain man, 
not bred in the north. I’d best go — home, and do 
nothing I ” 

With that, musing and bewildered, the poor man 
sneaked out, and was soon lost amidst the murmuring, 
gathering, and swaying crowds, many amongst which 
were as much perplexed as himself. 


372 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


In the meanwhile, with his cloak muffled carefully 
round his face, and with a long, stealthy, gliding stride, 
Alwyn made his way through the streets, gained the 
river, entered a boat in waiting for him, and arrived at 
last at the palace of the Tower. 


CHAPTER X. 

The Triumphal Entry of the Earl — The Royal Captive in the Tower 
— The Meeting between King-Maker and King. 

All in the chambers of the metropolitan fortress ex- 
hibited the greatest confusion and dismay. The sentinels, 
it is true, were still at their posts, men-at-arms at the 
outworks, the bombards were loaded, the flag of Edward 
lY. still waved aloft from the battlements ; but the 
officers of the fortress and the captains of its soldiery 
^ were, some assembled in the old hall, pale with fear, and 
wrangling with each other ; some had fled, none knew 
whither; some had gone avowedly and openly to join 
the invading army. 

Through this tumultuous and feeble force, Nicholas 
Alwyn was conducted by a single faithful servitor of the 
queen’s (by whom he was expected) ; and one glance of 
his quick eye, as he passed along, convinced him of the 
justice of his counsels. He arrived at last, by a long 
and winding stair at one of the loftiest chambers, in one 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 373 

of the loftiest towers, usually appropriated to the subor 
dinate officers of the household. 

And there, standing by the open casement, command- 
ing some extended view of the noisy and crowded scene 
beyond, both on stream and land, he saw the queen of 
the fugitive monarch. By her side was the Lady Scrope, 
her most^familiar friend and confidant — her three infant 
children, Elizabeth, Mary, and Cicely — grouped round 
her knees, playing with each other, and unconscious of 
the terrors of the times ; and apart from the rest stood 
the Duchess of Bedford, conferring eagerly with Friar 
Bungey, whom she had summoned in haste, to know if 
his art could not yet prevail over enemies merely mortal 
The servitor announced Alwyn, and retired ; the queen 
turned — “ What news. Master Alwyn ? Quick ! What 
tidings from the lord mayor?’’ 

“Gracious, my queen and lady,” said Alwyn, falling 
on his knees — “you have but one course to pursue. 
Below yon casement, lies your barge — to the right, see 
the round grey tower of Westminster Sanctuary; you 
have time yet, and but time I ” 

The old Duchess of Bedford turned her sharp, bright, 
grey eyes from the pale and trembling friar to the gold- 
smith, but was silent. The queen stood aghast I — “Mean 
you,” she faltered at last, “ that the city of London for- 
sakes the king ? Shame on the cravens ! ” 

“ Not cravens, my lady and queen,” said Alwyn, rising. 
“He must have iron nails that scratches a bear — and 
the white bear above all. The king has fled — the barons 
II. —32 


374 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

have fled — the soldiers have fled — the captains have fled 
— the citizens of London alone fly not; but there is 
nothing, save life and property, left to guard.” 

“ Is this thy boasted influence with the commons and 
youths of the city ? ” 

“ My humble influence, may it please your grace (I say 
it now openly, and I will say it a year hence, when King 
Edward w'ill hold his court in these halls once again), my 
influence, such as it is, has been used to save lives, which 
resistance would waste in vain. Alack, alack I ‘ No 
gaping against an oven,’ gracious lady I Your barge is 
below. Again I say, there is yet time — when the bell 
tolls the next hour, that time will be past 1 ” 

“Then Jesu defend these children!” said Elizabeth, 
bending over her infants, and weeping bitterly — “I will 
go I” 

“Hold!” said the Duchess of Bedford, “men desert 
us — but do the spirits also forsake? — Speak, friar! 
canst thou yet do aught for us? — and if not, thinkest 
thou it is the right hour to yield and fly ? ” 

“ Daughter,” said the friar, whose terror might have 
moved pity — “as I said before, thank yourself. This 
Warner, this — in short, the lesser magician, hath been 
aided and cockered to countervail the greater, as I fore- 
warned. Fly ! run ! fly ! Yerily and indeed, it is the 
properest of all times to save ourselves ; and the stars 

and the book, and my familiar, all call out ‘Off and 

away ! ’ ” 

“’Fore heaven !” exclaimed Alwyn, who had hitherto 


i 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS 375 

been dumb with astonishment at this singular interlude— 
“ sith he who hath shipped the devil must make the best 
of him, thou art for once an honest man, and a wise 
counsellor. Hark I the second gun I The earl is at the 
gates of the city I ’’ 

The queen lingered no longer — she caught her youngest 
child in her arms ; the Lady Scrope followed with the 
two others — “ Come, follow quick. Master Alwyn,” said 
the duchess, who, now that she was compelled to abandon 
the world of prediction and soothsaying, became tho- 
roughly the sagacious, plotting, ready woman of this life 
— “ Come, your face and name will be of service to us, 
an we meet with obstruction.” 

Before Alwyn could reply, the door was thrown ab- 
ruptly open, and several of the officers of the household 
rushed pell-mell into the royal presence. 

Gracious queen I ” cried many voices at once, each 

with a different sentence of fear and warning — “ Fly ! 

We cannot depend on the soldiers— the populace are up 
— they shout for King Henry— Dr. Godard is preaching 
against you at St. PauPs Cross— Sir Geoffrey Gates has 
come out of the sanctuary, and with him all the miscreants 

and outlaws — the mayor is now with the rebels 1 Fly I 

the sanctuary — the sanctuary I” 

“And who amongst you is of highest rank?” asked 
the duchess, calmly ; for Elizabeth, completely over- 
whelmed. seemed incapable of speech or movement. 

“ I, Giles de Malvoisin, knight banneret,” said an old 


376 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

warrior, armed cap-a-pie, who had fought in France 
under the hero Talbot. 

“ Then, sir,” said the duchess with majesty, “ to your 
hands I confide the eldest daughter of your king. Lead 
on I — we follow you. Elizabeth, lean on me.” 

With this, supporting Elizabeth, and leading her 
second grandchild, the duchess left the chamber. 

The friar followed amidst the crowd, for well he knew 
that if the soldiers of Warwick once caught hold of him, 
he had fared about as happily as the fox amidst the dogs ; 
and Alwyn, forgotten in the general confusion, hastened 
to Adam’s chamber. 

The old man, blessing any cause that induced his 
patroness to dispense with his astrological labors, and 
restored him to the care of his Eureka, was calmly and 
quietly employed in repairing the mischief effected by 
the bungling friar. And Sibyll, who at the first alarm 
had flown to his retreat, joyfully hailed the entrance of 
the friendly goldsmith. 

Alwyn was indeed perplexed what to adyise, for the 
principal sanctuary would, no doubt, be crowded by 
rufiians of the worst character ; and the better lodgments 
which that place, a little town in itself,* contained, be 
already pre-occupied by the Yorkists of rank; and the 
smaller sanctuaries were still more liable to the same 
objection. Moreover, if Adam should be recognized by 
any of the rabble that would meet them by the way, his 


* The Sanctuary of Westminster was fortified. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 371 

fate, by the summary malice of a mob, was certain. 
After all, the Tower would be free from the populace ; 
and as soon as, by a few rapid questions, Alwyn learned 
from Sibyll that she had reason to hope her father would 
find protection with Lord Warwick, and called to mind 
that Marmaduke Nevile was necessarily in the earl’s 
train, he advised them to remain quiet and concealed in 
their apartments, and promised to see and provide for 
them the moment the Tower was yielded up to the new 
government. 

The counsel suited both Sibyll and Warner. Indeed, 
the philosopher could not very easily have been induced 
to separate himself again from the beloved Eureka; and 
Sibyll was more occupied at that hour with thoughts and 
prayers for the beloved Hastings, — afar — a wanderer and 
an exile, — than with the turbulent events amidst which 
her lot was cast. 

In the storms of a revolution which convulsed a king- 
dom and hurled to the dust a throne, Love saw but a 
single object — Science but its tranquil toil. Beyond the 
realm of men lies ever with its joy and sorrow, its vicis- 
situde and change, the domain of the human heart. In 
the revolution, the toy of the scholar was restored to 
him ; in the revolution, the maiden mourned her lover. 
In the movement of the mass, each unit hath its separate 
passion. The blast that rocks the tree, shakes a different 
world in every leaf! 

32 ♦ 


378 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


CHAPTER XI. 

The Tower in Commotion. 

On quitting the Tower, Alwyn regainea the boat, anct 
took his way to the city ; and here, whatever credit that 
worthy and excellent personage may lose in certain eyes, 
his historian is bound to confess that his anxiety for 
Sibyll did not entirely distract his attention from interest 
or ambition. To become the head of his class, to rise 
to the first honors of his beloved city of London, had 
become to Nicholas Alwyn a hope and aspiration which 
made as much a part of his being as glory to a warrior, 
power to a king, an Eureka to a scholar ; and, though 
more mechanically than with any sordid calculation or 
self-seeking, Nicholas Alwyn repaired to his Ware in the 
Chepe. The streets, when he landed, already presented 
a different appearance from the disorder and tumult 
noticeable when he had before passed them. The citizens 
now had decided what course to adopt ; and though the 
shops, or rather booths, were carefully closed, streamers 
of silk, cloth of arras and gold were hung from the upper 
casements; the balconies were crowded with holiday 
gazers; the fickle populace (the same herd that had 
hooted the meek Henry when led to the Tower) were 
now shouting, “A Warwick!’’ “A Clarence!” and 
pouring throng after throng, to gaze upon the army. 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 379 

which, with the mayor and aldermen, had already entered 
the city. Having seen to the security of his costly 
goods, and praised his apprentices duly for their care of 
his interests, and their abstinence from joining the crowd, 
Nicholas then repaired to the upper story of his house, 
and set forth from his casements and balcony the richest 
stuffs he possessed. However, there was his own shrewd, 
sarcastic smile on his firm lips, as he said to his appren- 
tices, “ When these are done with, lay them carefully by 
against Edward of York’s re-entry.” 

Meanwhile, preceded by trumpets, drums, and heralds, 
the Earl of Warwick and his royal son-in-law rode into 
the shouting city. Behind came the litter of the Duchess 
o'f Clarence, attended by the Earl of Oxford, Lord Fitz- 
hugh, the Lords Stanley and Shrewsbury, Sir Robert de 
Lytton, and a princely cortege of knights, squires, and 
nobles ; while, file upon file, rank upon rank, followed 
the long march of the unresisted armament. 

Warwick, clad in complete armor of Milan steel — save 
the helmet, which was borne behind him by his squire, — 
mounted on his own noble Saladin, preserved upon a 
countenance so well suited to command the admiration 
of a populace, the same character as heretofore, of manly 
majesty and lofty frankness. But to a nearer and more 
searching gaze than was likely to be bent upon him in 
such an hour, the dark deep traces of care, anxiety, and 
passion might have been detected in the lines which now 
thickly intersected the forehead, once so smooth and 
furrowless ; and his kingly eye, not looking, as of old. 


380 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

right forward a§ he moved, cast unquiet, searching glances 
about him and around, as he bowed his bare head from 
side to side of the welcoming thousands. 

A far greater change, to outward appearance, was 
visible in the fair young face of the Duke of Clarence. 
His complexion, usually sanguine and blooming, like his 
elder brother’s, was now little less pale than that of 
Richard. A sullen, moody, discontented expression, 
which not all the heartiness of the greetings he received 
could dispel, contrasted forcibly with the good-humored 
laughing recklessness, which had once drawn a “ God 
bless him ! ” from all on whom rested his light-blue joyous 
eye. He whs unarmed, save by a corslet richly embossed 
with gold. His short manteline of crimson velvet, his 
hosen of white cloth laced with gold, and his low horse- 
man’s boots of Spanish leather curiously carved and 
broidered, with long golden spurs, his plumed and 
jewelled cap, his white charger with housings enriched 
with pearls and blazing with cloth of gold, his broad 
collar of precious stones, with the order of St. George ; 
his general’s truncheon raised aloft, and his Plantagenet 
banner borne by the herald over his royal head, caught 
the eyes of the crowd, only the more to rivet them on an 
aspect ill fitting the triumph of a bloodless victory. At 
his left hand, where the breadth of the streets permitted, 
rode Henry Lee, the mayor, uttering no word, unless ap- 
pealed to, and then answering but with chilling reverence 
and dry monosyllables. 

A narrow winding in the streets, which left Warwick 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 381 

and Clarence alone side by side, gave the former the op- 
portunity he had desired. 

How, prince and son,’' he said in a hollow whisper, 
“is it with this brow of care that thou saddenest our 
conquest, and enterest the capital we gain without a 
blow ? ” 

“ By St. George ! ” answered Clarence, sullenly, and in 
the same tone ; “ thinkest thou it chafes not the son of 
Richard of York, after such toils and bloodshed, to 
minister to the dethronement of his kin and the restora- 
tion of the foe of his race ? ” 

Thou shouldst have thought of that before,” returned 
Warwick, but with sadness and pity in the reproach. 

“Ay, before Edward of Lancaster was made my lord 
and brother,” retorted Clarence, bitterly. 

“ Hush ! ” said the earl, “ and calm thy brow. Not 
thus didst thou speak at Amboise ; either thou wert then 
less frank, or more generous. But regrets are vain ; we 
have raised the whirlwind, and must rule it.” 

And with that, in the action of a man who would 
escape his own thoughts, Warwick made his black steed 
demivolte ; and the crowd shouted again the louder at 
the earl’s gallant horsemanship, and Clarence’s dazzling 
collar of jewels. 

While thus the procession of the victors, the nominal 
object of all this mighty and sudden revolution — of this 
stir and uproar — of these shining arms and flaunting 
banners, — of this heaven or hell in the deep passions of 
men — still remained in his prison-chamber of the Tower, 


S82 the last of the barons. 

a true type of the thing factions contend for ; absent^ 
insignificant, unheeded, and, save by a few of the leader^ 
and fanatical priests, absolutely forgotten I 

To this solitary chamber we are now transported ; yet 
solitary is a word of doubtful propriety ; for though the 
royal captive was alone, so far as the human species make 
up a man’s companionship ahd solace — though the faith- 
ful gentlemen. Manning, Bedle, and Allerton, had, on the 
uews of Warwick’s landing, beeB thrust from his cham- 
ber, and were now in the ranks of his new and strang6 
defenders, yet power and jealousy had not left his cap- 
tivity all forsaken. There was still the starling in its 
cage, and the fat, asthmatic spaniel still wagged its tail 
at the sound of its master’s voice, or the rustle of his 
long gown. And still from the ivory crucifix gleained 
the sad and holy face of the God — present alway — and 
who, by faith and patience, linketh evermore grief to joy 
— but earth to heaven. 

The august prisoner had not been so utterly cut off 
from all knowledge of the outer life as to be ignorant of 
some unwonted and important stir in the fortress and the 
city. The squire who had brought him his morning meal 
had been so agitated as to excite the captive’s attention, 
and had then owned that the Earl of Warwick had pro- 
claimed Henry king, and was on his march to London. 
But neither the squire nor any of the officers of the Towe'r 
dared release the illustrious captive, nor even remove 
him as yet to the state apartments vacated by Elizabeth.! 
They knew not what might be the pleasure of the stontJ 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS 383 

earl or tlie Duke of Clarence, and feared over-officious- 
ness might be their worst crime. But naturally imagin- 
ing that Henry’s first command, at the new position of 
things, might be for liberty, and perplexed whether to 
yield or refuse, they absented themselves from his sum- 
mons, and left the whole tower in which he was placed 
actually deserted. 

From his casement the king could see, however, the 
commotion, and the crowds upon the wharf and river, 
with the gleam of arms and banners ; —- and hear the 
sounds of “A Warwick I ” A Clarence I ” “Long live 
good Henry YI. !” A strange combination of names, 
which disturbed and amazed him much ! But by degrees, 
the unwonted excitement of perplexity and surprise 
settled back into the calm serenity of his most gentle 
mind and temper. That trust in an all-directing Provi- 
dence, to which he had schooled himself, had (if we may 
so say with reverence) driven his beautiful soul into the 
opposite error, so fatal to the affairs of life ; the error 
that deadens and benumbs the energy of free will and the 
noble alertness of active duty. Why strain and strive 
for the things of this world ? God would order all for 
the best. Alas ! God hath placed us in this world, each, 
from king to peasant, with nerves, and hearts, and blood, 
and passions, to struggle with our kind ; and, no matter 
how heavenly the goal, to labor with the million in the 
race ! 

“ Forsooth,” murmured the king, as, his hands clasped 
behind him, he paced slowly to and fro the floor, “this 


384 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

ill world seemeth but a feather, blown about by the winds, 
and never to be at rest. Hark I Warwick and King 
Henry — the lion and the lamb I Alack, and we are fallen 
on no Paradise, where such union were not a miracle I 
Foolish bird ! ” — and with a pitying smile upon that face 
whose holy sweetness might have disarmed a fiend, he 
paused before the cage and contemplated his fellow-cap- 
tive — “ Foolish bird, the uneasiness and turmoil without 
have reached even to thee. Thou beatest thy wings 
against the wires — thou turnest thy bright eyes to mine 
restlessly. Why ? Pantest thou to be free, silly one, 
that the hawk may swoop on its defenceless prey ? 
Better, perhaps, the cage for thee, and the prison for thy 
master. Well — out if thou wilt I Here at least thou art 
safe I ” and opening the cage, the starling flew to his 
bosom, and nestled there, with its small clear voice 
mimicking the human sound. 

“Poor Henry — poor Henry I Wicked men — poor 
Henry 1 ” 

The king bowed his meek head over his favorite, and 
the fat spaniel, jealous of the monopolized caress, came 
waddling towards its master, with a fond whine, and 
looked up at him with eyes that expressed more of faith 
and love than Edward of York, the ever wooing and ever 
wooed, had read in the gaze of woman. 

With those companions, and with thoughts growing 
more and more composed and rapt from all tnat had 
roused and vexed his interest in the forenoon, Henry re- 
mained till the hour had long p<)ssed for his evenin 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 385 

meal. Surprised at last by a negligence which (to do his 
jailors justice) had never before occurred, and finding no 
response to his hand-bell — no attendant in the ante-room 
— the outer doors locked as usual — but the sentinel’s 
tread in the court below, hushed and still, a cold thrill 
for a moment shot through his blood. ‘‘Was he left for 
hunger to do its silent work I ’• Slowly he bent his way 
from the outer rooms back to his chamber ; and, as he 
passed the casement again, he heard, though far in the 
distance, through the dim air of the deepening twilight, 
the cry of “ Long live King Henry I ” 

This devotion without — this neglect within, was a 
wondrous contrast ! Meanwhile the spaniel, with that 
instinct of fidelity which divines the wants of the master, 
had moved snuffling and smelling, round and round the 
chambers, till it stopped and scratched at a cupboard in 
the ante-room, and then with a joyful bark flew back to 
the king, and taking the hem of his gown between its 
teeth, led him towards the spot it had discovered ; and 
there, in truth, a few of those small cakes, usually served 
up for the night’s livery, had been carelessly left. They 
sufflced for the day’s food, and the king, the dog, and the 
starling, shared them peacefully together. This done, 
Henry carefully replaced his bird in its cage, bade the dog 
creep to the hearth and lie still ; passed on to his little 
oratory, with the relics of cross and saint strewed around 
the solemn image — and in prayer forgot the world I 
Meanwhile darkness set in : the streets had grown de- 
Rerted, save where in some nooks and by-lanes gathered 
II —33 z 


38G 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


groups of the soldiery ; but for the most part the disci- 
pline in which Warwick held his army, had dismissed 
those stern loiterers to the various quarters provided for 
them, and little remained to remind the peaceful citizens 
that a throne had been uprooted, and a revolution con- 
summated, that eventful day. It was at this time that a 
tall man, closely wrapped in his large horseman’s cloak, 
passed alone through the streets, and gained the Tower. 
At the sound of his voice by the great gate, the sentinel 
started in alarm ; a few moments more, and all left to 
guard the fortress were gathered round him. From these 
he singled out one of the squires who usually attended 
Henry, and bade him light his steps to the king’s chamber. 
As in that chamber Henry rose from his knees, he saw 
the broad red light of a torch flickering under the chinks 
of the threshold ; he heard the slow tread of approach- 
ing footsteps, the spaniel uttered a low growl, its eyes 
sparkling,— the door opened, and the torch borne behind 
by the squire, and raised aloft so that its glare threw a 
broad light over the whole chamber, brought into full 
view the dark and haughty countenance of the Earl of 
Warwick. 

The squire, at a gesture from the earl, lighted the 
sconces on the wall, the tapers on the table, and quickly 
vanished. King-maker and king were alone I At the 
first sight of Warwick, Henry had turned pale, and 
receded a few paces, with one hand uplifted in adjuration 

or command, while with the other he veiled his eyes 

whether that this startled movement came from the weak- 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 387 

ness of bodily nerves, much shattered by sickness and 
confinement, or from the sudden emotions called forth by 
the aspect of one who had wrought him calamities so 
dire. But the craven’s terror in the presence of a living 
foe was, with all his meekness, all his holy abhorrence of 
wrath and warfare, as unknown to that royal heart as to 
the high blood of his Hero-sire. And so, after a brief 
pause, and a thought that took the shape of prayer, not 
for safety from peril, but for grace to forgive the past, 
Henry YI. advanced to Warwick, who still stood dumb 
by the threshold, combating with his own mingled and 
turbulent emotions of pride and shame, and said, in a 
voice majestic even from its very mildness — 

‘‘ What tale of new woe and evil hath the Earl of 
Salisbury and Warwick come to announce to the poor 
captive who was once a king?” 

“ Forgive me ! Forgiveness, Henry, my lord — For- 
giveness I ” exclaimed Warwick, falling on his knee. The 
meek reproach — the touching words — the mien and 
visage altered, since last beheld, from manhood into age 
—the grey hairs and bended form of the king, went at 
once to that proud heart ; and as the earl bent over the 
wan, thin hand, resigned to his lips, a tear upon its sur- 
face out-sparkled all the jewels that it wore. 

“ Yet no,” continued the earl (impatient, as proud men 
are, to hurry from repentance to atonement, for the one 
is of humiliation and the other of pride), — “yet no, my 
liege — not now do I crave thy pardon. No ; but when 
oegirt. in the halls of thine ancestors, with the peers of 


388 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

England, the victorious banner of St. George waving 
above the throne which thy servant hath rebuilt — then, 
when the trumpets are sounding thy rights without the 
answer of a foe — then, when from shore to shore of fair 
England the shout of thy people echoes to the vault of 
heaven — then will Warwick kneel again to King Henry, 
and sue for the pardon he hath not ignobly won I ” 

“ Alack, sir,” said the king, with accents of mournful, 
yet half-reproving kindness, ‘‘ it was not amidst trumps 
and banners that the Son of God set mankind the exem- 
plar and pattern of charity to foes. When thy hand 
struck the spurs from my heel — when thou didst parade 
me through the hooting crowd to this solitary cell, then, 
Warwick, I forgave thee, and prayed to heaven for pardon 
for thee, if thou didst wrong me — for myself, if a king’s 
fault hath deserved a subject’s harshness. Rise, sir earl ; 
our God is a jealous God, and the attitude of worship is 
for Him alone.” 

Warwick rose from his knee ; and the king, perceiving 
and compassionating the struggle which shook the strong 
man’s breast, laid his hand on the earl’s shoulder, and 
said — “Peace be with thee I — thou hast done me no 
real harm. I have been as happy in these walls as in the 
green parks of Windsor; happier than in the halls of 
state, or in the midst of wrangling armies. What 
tidings now?” 

“ My liege, is it possible that you know not that Ed- 
ward is a fugitive and a beggar, and that Heaven hath 
permitted me to avenge at once your injuries and mv 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS, 


389 


own ? This day, without a blow I have regained youi 
city of London ; its streets are manned with my army. 
From the council of peers, and warriors, and prelates, 
assembled at my house, I have stolen hither alone and in 
secret, that I might be the first to hail your grace’s resto- 
ration to the throne of Henry V.” 

The king’s face so little changed at this intelligence, 
that its calm sadness almost enraged the impetuous War- 
wick, and with difficulty he refrained from giving utter- 
ance to the thought — “He is not worthy of a throne, 
who cares so little to possess it.” 

“ Well-a-day I ” said Henry, sighing, “Heaven, then, 
hath sore trials yet in store for mine old age I Tray — 
Tray I ” and stooping, he gently patted his dog, who 
kept watch at his feet, still glaring suspiciously at War- 
wick — “We are both too old for the chase now ! — Will 
you be seated, my lord?” 

“ Trust me,” said the earl, as he obeyed the command, 
having first set chair and footstool for the king, who 
listened to him with downcast eyes and his head droop- 
ing on his bosom — “trust me, your later days, my liege, 
will be free from the storms of your youth. All chance 
of Edward’s hostility is expired. Your alliance, though 
I seem boastful so to speak — your alliance with one in 
whom the people can confide for some skill in war, and 
some more profound experience of the habits and tempers 
of your subjects than your former councillors could pos- 
sess, will leave your honored leisure free for the holy 
meditations it affects; and your glory, as your safety, 
33 * 


390 


THE r,AST OF THE BARONS. 


shall be the care of men who can awe this rebellious 
world. ” 

“ Alliance I ” said the king, who had caught but that 
one word. “ Of what speakest thou, sir earl ? ” 

“ These missives will explain all, my liege. This letter 
from my lady the Queen Margaret, and this from your 
gracious son, the Prince of Wales.” 

“ Edward I my Edward 1 ” exclaimed the king, with a 
father’s burst of emotion. “ Thou hast seen him, then ? 
— bears he his health well ? — is he of cheer and heart 

“ He is strong and fair, and full of promise, and brave 
as his grandsire’s sword.” 

“And knows he — knows he well, that we all are the 
potter’s clay in the hands of God ? ” 

“My liege,” said Warwick, embarrassed, “he has as 
much devotion as befits a Christian knight and a goodly 
prince.” 

“ Ah I ” sighed the king, “ ye men of arms have strange 
thoughts on these matters ; ” and cutting the silk of the 
letters, he turned from the warrior. Shading his face 
with his hand, the earl darted his keen glance on the 
features of the king, as, drawing near to the table, the 
latter read the communications which announced his new 
connection with his ancient foe. 

But Henry was at first so affected by the sight of 
Margaret’s well-known hand, that he thrice put down her 
^ letter, and wiped the moisture from his eyes. 

“ My poor Margaret, how thou hast suffered I ” he 
murmured ; “ these very characters are less firm and bold 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 391 

than they were. Well — well!” and at last he betook 
himself resolutely to the task. Once or twice his counte- 
nance changed, and he uttered an exclamation of sur- 
prise. But the proposition of a marriage between Prince 
Edward and the Lady Anne did not revolt his forgiving 
mind, as it had the haughty and stern temper of his con- 
sort. And when he had concluded his son’s epistle, full 
of the ardor of his love and the spirit of his youth, the 
king passed his left hand over his brow, and then extend- 
ing his right to Warwick, said, in accents which trembled 
with emotion — “ Serve my son— since he is thine, too ; 
— give peace to this distracted kingdom — repair my 
errors — press not hard upon those who contend against 
us, and Jesu and his saints will bless this bond!” 

The earl’s object, perhaps, in seeking a meeting with 
Henry, so private and unwitnessed, had been, that none, 
not even his brother, might hearken to the reproaches he 
anticipated to receive, or say hereafter that he heard 
Warwick, returned as victor and avenger to his native 
land, descend, in the hour of triumph, to extenuation and 
excuse. So atfronted, imperilled, or to use his own 
strong word, ‘'so despaired,’’^ had he been in the former 
rule of Henry, that his intellect, which, however vigorous 
in his calmer moods, was liable to be obscured and dulled 
by his passions, had half-confounded the gentle king with 
his ferocious wife and stern councillors, and he had 
thought he never could have humbled himself to. the man, 
even so far as knighthood’s submission to Margaret’s sex 
had allowed him to the woman. But the sweetness of 


392 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

Henry’s manners and disposition — the saint-like dignity 
widen lie had manifested throughout this painful inter- 
view, and the touching grace and trustful generosity of 
his last words — words which consummated the earl’s 
large projects of ambition and revenge, had that effect 
upon Warwick which the preaching of some holy man, 
dwelling upon the patient sanctity of the Savior had of 
old on a grim Crusader, all incapable of practising such 
meek excellence, and yet all-moved and penetrated by its 
loveliness in another ; and, like such Crusader, the repre- 
sentation of all mildest and most forgiving singularly 
stirred up in the warrior’s mind images precisely the re- 
verse — images of armed valor and stern vindication, as 
if where the Cross was planted, sprang from the earth 
the standard and the war-horse 1 

“ Perish your foes I May war and storm scatter them 
as the chaff I My liege, my royal master,” continued the 
earl, in a deep, low, faltering voice. “Why knew I not 
thy holy and princely heart before ? Why stood so many 
between Warwick’s devotion and a king so worthy to 
command it ? How poor beside thy great-hearted forti- 
tude and thy Christian heroism, seems the savage valor 
of false Edward ! Shame upon one who can betray the 
trust thou hast placed in him. Never will I ! Never! 
I swear it ! No 1 though all England desert thee, I will 
Bland alone with my breast of mail before thy throne I 
Oh, would that my triumph had been less peaceful and 
less bloodless I would that a hundred battle-fields were 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


393 


yet left to prove how deeply — deeply in his heart of 
hearts — Warwick feels the forgiveness of his king !” 

“Not so — not so — not so; not battle-fields, War- 
wick I ” said Henry. “ Ask not to serve the king by 
shedding one subject’s blood.” 

“ Your pious will be obeyed I ” replied Warwick. “We 
will see if mercy can effect in others what thy pardon 
effects in me. And now, my liege, no longer must these 
walls confine thee. The chambers of the palace await 
their sovereign. What ho, there I ” and going to the 
door, he threw it open, and agreeably to the orders he 
had given below, all the ofBcers left in the fortress crowded 
together in the small ante-room, bareheaded, with tapers 
in ther hands, to conduct the monarch to the halls of his 
conquered foe. 

At the sudden sight of the earl, these men, struck in- 
voluntarily and at once by the grandeur of his person and 
his animated aspect, burst forth with the rude retainer’s 
cry, “A Warwick I a Warwick 1 ” 

“Silence I” thundered the earl’s deep voice. “Who 
names the subject in the sovereign’s presence ? Behold 
your king ! ” 

The men, abashed by the reproof, bowed their heads 
and sank on their knees, as Warwick took a taper from 
the table, to lead the way from the prison. 

Then Henry turned slowly, and gazed with a lingering 
eye upon the walls, which even sorrow and solitude had 
endeared. The little oratory — the crucifix — the relics — 
the embers burning low on the hearth — the rude time- 


394 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


piece — all took to his thoughtful eye an almost huiaan 
aspect of melancholy and omen ; and the bird, roused, 
whether by the glare of the lights, or the recent shout of 
the men, opened its bright eyes, and fluttering restlessly 
to and fro, shrilled out its favorite sentence — “Poor 
Henry ! — poor Henry ! — wicked men I— who would be a 
king ? ’’ 

“Thou hearest it, Warwick said Henry, shaking his 
head. 

“ Could an eagle speak, it would have another cry than 
the starling,” returned the earl, with a proud smile. 

“ Why, look you,” said the king, once more releasing 
the bird, which settled on his wrist, “ the eagle had broken 
his heart in the narrow cage — the eagle had been no 
comforter for a captive ; it is these gentler ones that love 
and soothe us best in our adversities. Tray, Tray, fawn 
not now, Sirrah, or I shall think thou hast been false in 
thy fondness heretofore ! Cousin, I attend you.” 

And with his bird on his wrist, his dog at his heels, 
Henry YI. followed the earl to the illuminated hall of 
Edward, where the table was spread for the royal repast, 
and where his old friends. Manning, Bedle, and Allerton, 
stood weeping for joy; while from the gallery raised 
aloft, the musicians gave forth the rough and stirring 
melody which had gradually fallen out of usage, but 
which was once the Norman’s national air, and which 
the warlike Margaret of Anjou had retaught to her 
minstrels — “The Battle Hymn of Rollo.” 


r 


BOOK ELEVENTH. 

THE NEW POSITION OP THE KING-MAKER. 


CHAPTER I. 

Wherein Master Adam Warner is notably commended and advanced 

and Greatness says to Wisdom, “ Thy Destiny be mine, Amen.” 

The Chronicles inform us, that two kjT three 'days after 
^the entrance of Warwick and Clarence — viz. on the 6th 
of October — those two leaders, accompanied by the Lords 
Shrewsbury, Stanley:, and a numerous and noble train, 
visited the Tower in formal state, and escorted the king, 
robed, in blue velvet, the crown on his head, to public 
thanksgivings at St. Paul’s, and thence to the Bishop’s 
Palace,* where he continued chiefly to reside. 

The proclamation that announced the change of dynasty 
was received with apparent acquiescence through the 
length and breadth of the kingdom, and the restoration 
of the Lancastrian line seemed yet the more firm and 

* Not to the Palace at Westminster, as some historians, prefer- 
ring the French to the English authorities, have asserted — that 
palace was out of repair. 


( 396 ) 


396 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

solid by the magnanimous forbearance of Warwick and 
his councils. Not one execution that could be termed 
the act of a private revenge, stained with blood the se- 
cond reign of the peaceful Henry. One only head fell 
on the scaffold — that of the Earl of Worcester.* This 
solitary execution, which was regarded by all classes as a 
due concession to justice — only yet more illustrated the 
general mildness of the new rule. 

It was in the earliest days of this sudden Restoration, 
that Alwyn found the occasion to serve his friends in the 
Tower. Warwick was eager to conciliate all the citizens, 
who, whether frankly or grudgingly, had supported his 
cause ; and, amongst these, he was soon informed of the 
part taken in the Guildhall by the rising goldsmith. He 
sent for Alwyn to his house in Warwick-lane, and after 
complimenting him on his advance in life and repute, 
since Nicholas had waited on him with baubles for his 
embassy to France, he offered him the special rank of 
goldsmith to the king. 

The wary, yet honest, trader paused a moment in some 
embarrassment before he answered — 

“ My good lord, you are noble and gracious eno’ to 

* Lord Warwick himself did not sit in judgment on Worcester 
He was tried and condemned by Lord Oxford. Though some old 
oflFences in his Irish government were alleged against him, the 
cruelties which rendered him so odious were of recent date. He 
had (ns we before took occasion to relate) impaled twenty persons 
after Warwick’s flight into France. The “ Warkworth Chronicle” 
says, “he was ever afterwardes greatly behated among the people 
for this disordynale delhe that he used, contrary to the laws of the 
landc.” 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 39t 

understand and forgive me when I say that I have had, 
in the upstart of my fortunes, the countenance of the late 
King Edward and his queen ; and though the public weal 
made me advise my fellow-citizens not to resist your en- 
try, I would not, at least, have it said that my desertion 
bad benefited my private fortunes.” 

Warwick colored, and his lip curled. “Tush, man, 
assume not virtues which do not exist amongst the sons 
of trade, nor, much I trow, amongst the sons of Adam. 
I read thy mind. Thou thinkest it unsafe openly to com- 
mit thyself to the new state. Fear not — we are firm.” 

“ Nay, ray lord,” returned Alwyn, “it is not so. But 
there are many better citizens than I, who remember that 
the Yorkists were ever friends to commerce. And you 
will find that only by great tenderness to our crafts you 
can win the heart of London, though you have passed 
its gates.” 

“ I shall be just to all men,” answered the earl, dryly ; 
“ but if the flat-caps are false, there are eno’ of bonnets 
of steel to watch over the Red Rose ! ” 

“ You are said, my lord,” returned Alwyn, bluntly, “to 
love the barons, the knights, the gentry, the yeomen, and 
the peasants, but to despise the traders — I fear me, that 
report in this is true.” 

“I love not the trader spirit, man — the spirit that 
cheats, and cringes, and haggles, and splits straws for 
pence, and roasts eggs by other men’s blazing rafters. 
Edward of Yort, forsooth, was a great trader I It was 
a sorry hour for England, when such as ye, Nick Alwyn, 

II.— 34 3h 


398 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


left youl green villages for loom and booth. But thus 
far have I spoken to you as a brave fellow, and of the 
north countree. I have no time to waste on words. Wilt 
thou accept mine offer, or name another boon in my 
power ? The man who hath served me wrongs me, — till 
I have served him again I’’"' 

“ My lord, yes ; I will name such a boon ; safety, and 
if you will, some grace and honor, to a learned scholar 
now in the Tower — one Adam Warner, whom ” 

“ Now in the Tower I Adam Warner I And wanting 
a friend, I no more an exile ! That is my affair, not 
thine. Grace, honor — ay, to his heart’s content. And 
his noble daughter? Mort Dieu! she shall choose her 
bridegroom among the best of England. Is she, too, in 
the fortress ? ” 

“Yes,” said Alwyn, briefly, not liking the last part of 
the earl’s speech. 

The earl rang the bell on his table. “ Send hither 
Sir Marmaduke Nevile.” 

Alwyn saw his former rival enter, and heard the earl 
commission him to accompany, with a fitting train, his 
own litter to the Tower. “And you, Alwyn, go with your 
foster-brother, and pray Master Warner and his daughter 
to be my guests for their own pleasure. Come hither, 
my rude Northman — come. I see I shall have many 
secret foes in this city — wilt not thou at least be War- 
wick’s open friend ? ” 

Alwyn found it hard to resist the charm of the earl’s 
manner and voice, but, convinced in his own mind that 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. SOI; 

the age was against Warwick, and that commerce and 
London would be little advantaged by the earPs rule, the 
trading spirit prevailed in his breast. 

“Gracious my lord,” he said, bending his knee in no 
servile homage, “ he who befriends my order, commands 
me.” 

The proud noble bit his lip, and with a silent wave of 
his hand, dismissed the foster-brothers. 

“ Thou art but a churl at best, Nick,” said Marma- 
duke, as the door closed on the young men. “Many a 
baron would have sold his father’s hall for such words 
from the earl’s lip.” 

“ Let barons sell their free conduct for fair words. I 
keep myself unshackled, to join that cause which best fills 
the market, and reforms the law. But tell me, I pray 
thee, sir knight, what makes Warner and his daughter so 
dear to your lord ? ” 

“ What I know you not ? — and has she not told you ? 
— Ah — what was I about to say?” 

“ Can there be a secret between the earl and the 
scholar ? ” asked Alwyn, in wonder. 

“ If there be, it is our place to respect it,” returned 
the Nevile, adjusting his manteline — “and now we must 
command the litter.” 

In spite of all the more urgent and harassing affairs 
that pressed upon him, the earl found an early time to 
attend to his guests. His welcome to Sibyll was more 
than courteous — it was paternal. As she approached 


400 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


him, timidly, and with a downcast eye, he advanced, 
placed his hand upon her head — 

“The Holy Mother ever have thee in her charge, 
child ^ — This is a father’s kiss, young mistress,” added 
the earl, pressing his lips to her forehead. — “ and in this 
kiss, remember that I pledge to thee care for thy fortunes, 
honor for thy name — my heart to do thee service — my 
arm to shield from wrong I Brave scholar, thy lot has 
become interwoven with my own. Prosperous is now my 
destiny — my destiny be thine 1 Amen 1 ” 

He turned then to Warner, and without further refer- 
ence to a past, which so galled his proud spirit, he made 
the scholar explain to him the nature of his labors. In 
the mind of every. man who has passed much of his life 
in successful action, there is a certain, if we may so say, 
untaught mathesis, — but especially among those who 
have been bred to the art of war. A great soldier is a 
great mechanic — a great mathematician, though he may 
know it not ; and Warwick, therefore, better than many 
a scholar, comprehended the principle upon which Adam 
founded his experiments. But though he caught also a 
glimpse of the vast results which such experiments in 
themselves were calculated to effect, his strong common 
sense perceived yet more clearly that the time was not 
ripe for such startling inventions. 

“ My friend,” he said, “ I comprehend thee passably. 
It is clear to me, that if thou canst succeed in making the 
elements do the work of man with equal precision, but 
with far greater force and rapidity, thou must multiply 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


401 


eventually, and, by multiplying, cheapen, all the products 
of industry — that thou must give to this country the 
market of the world, — and that thine would be the true 
alchemy that turneth all to gold.” 

“Mighty intellect — thou graspest the truth!” ex- 
claimed Adam. 

“ But,” pursued the earl, with a mixture of prejudice 
and judgment, “ grant thee success to the full, and thou 
wonldst turn this bold land of yeomanry and manhood 
into one community of griping traders and sickly artisans. 
Mart Dieu ! we are over-commerced as it is — the bow is 
already deserted for the ell-measure. The town popula- 
tion are ever the ‘most worthless in war. England is be- 
girt with mailed foes : and if by one process she were to 
accumulate treasure and lose soldiers, she would but tempt 
invasion and emasculate defenders. Yerily, I avise and 
implore thee to turn thy wit and scholarship to a manlier 
occupation ! ” 

“My life knows no other object — kill my labor and 
thou destroyest me,” said Adam, in a voice of gloomy 
despair. Alas, it seemed that, whatever the changes of 
power, no change could better the hopes of science in ati 
age of iron ! 

Warwick was moved. “Well,” he said, after a pause, 
“be happy in thine own way, I will do my best at least 
to protect thee. To-morrow resume thy labors ; but this 
day, at least, thou must feast with me.” 

And at his banquet that day, among the knights and 
barons, and the abbots and the warriors, Adam sat on 
34 * 2 a 


402 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

the dai*3, near the earl, and Sibyll at “the mess” of the 
ladies of the Duchess of Clarence. And ere the feast 
broke up, Warwick thus addressed his company ; — 

“My friends, — though I, and most of us reared in the 
lap of war, have little other clerkship than sufficed our 
bold fathers before us, yet in the free towns of Italy and 
the Rhine — yea, and in France, under her politic king — 
we may see that a day is dawning wherein new knowledge 
will teach many marvels to our wiser sons. Wherefore 
it is good that a state should foster men who devote 
laborious nights and weary days to the advancement of 
arts and letters, for the glory of our common land. A 
worthy gentleman, now at this board, hath deeply medi- 
tated contrivances which may make our English artisans 
excel the Flemish loons, who now fatten upon our indus- 
try to the impoverishment of the realm. And, above all, 
he also purposes to complete an invention which may 
render our ship-craft the most notable in Europe. Of 
this I say no more at the present ; but I commend^our 
guest. Master Adani Warner, to your good service, and 
pray you especially, w'orshipful sirs of the church now 
present, to shield his good name from that charge which 
most paineth and endangereth honest men. For ye wot 
well that the commons, from ignorance, would impute all 
to witchcraft that passeth their understanding. Not,’^ 
added the earl, crossing himself, “that witchcraft does 
not horribly infect the land, and hath been largely prac- 
tised by Jacquetta of Bedford, and her confederates. 
Bungey and others. But our cause needeth no such aid j 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


403 


and all that Master Warner purposes is in behalf of the 
people, and in conformity with holy church. So this 
waisall to his health and house.” 

This characteristic address being received with respect, 
though with less applause than usually greeted the 
speeches of the great earl, Warwick added, in a softer 
and more earnest tone, “And in the fair demoiselle, his 
daughter, I pray you to acknowledge the dear friend of 
my beloved lady and child, Anne, Princess of Wales; 
and for the sake of her highness, and in her name, I 
arrogate to myself a share with Master Warner in this 
young donzelPs guardianship and charge. Know ye, my 
gallant gentles and fair squires, that he who can succeed 
in achieving, either by leal love or by bold deeds, as best 
befit a wooer, the grace of my young w,ard shall claim 
from my hands a knighPs fee, with as much of my best 
land as a bull’s hide can cover ; and when Heaven shall 
grant safe passage to the Princess Anne and her noble 
spouse, we will hold at Smithfield a tourney in honor of 
St. George and our ladies, wherein, pardie, I myself 
would be sorely tempted to provoke my jealous countess, 
and break a lance for the fame of the demoiselle whose 
fair face is married to a noble heart.” 

That evening, in the galliard, many an admiring eye 
turned to Sibyll, and many a young gallant, recalling the 
earl’s words, sighed to win her grace. There had been 
a time when such honor and such homage would have, 
indeed, been welcome ; but now, one saw them not, and 
they were valueless. All that, in her earlier girlhood, 


404 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


Sibyll s ambition had coveted, when musing on the bril- 
liant world, seemed now well-nigh fulfilled — her father 
protected by the first noble of the land, and that not 
with the degrading condescension of the Duchess of 
Bedford, but as Power alone should protect Genius — 
honored while it honors ; her gentle birth recognized ; 
her position elevated ; fair fortunes smiling, after such 
rude trials ; and all won without servility or abasement. 
But her ambition having once exhausted itself in a diviner 
passion, all excitement seemed poor and spiritless com- 
pared to the lonely waiting at the humble farm for the 
voice and step of Hastings. Nay, but for her father’s 
sake, she could almost have loathed the pleasure and the 
pomp, and the admiration, and the homage, which seemed 
to insult the reverses of the wandering exile. 

The earl had designed to place 8ibyll among Isabei'o 
ladies, but the haughty air of the duchess chilled the 
poor girl ; and, pleading the excuse that her father’s 
health required her constant attendance, she prayed per- 
mission to rest with Warner wherever he might be lodged. 
Adam himself, now that the Duchess of Bedford and 
Friar Biingey were no longer in the Tower, entreated 
permission to return to the place where he had worked 
the most successfully upon the beloved Eureka, and, as 
the Tower seemed a safer residence than any private 
home could be, from popular prejudice and assault, War- 
wick kindly ordered apartments, far more commodious 
than they had yet occupied, to be appropriated to the 
father and daughter. Several attendants were assigned 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 405 

to them, and never was man of letters or science more 
honored now than the poor scholar, who, till then, had 
been so persecuted and despised I 

Who shall tell Adam’s serene delight I Alchemy and 
astrology at rest — no imperious duchess — no hateful 
Bungey—his free mind left to its congenial labors ! And 
Sibyll, when they met, strove to wear a cheerful brow, 
praying him only never to speak to her of Hastings. 
The good old man, relapsing into his wonted mechanical 
existence, hoped she had forgotten a girl’s evanescent 
fancy. 

But the peculiar distinction showed by the earl to 

Warner, confirmed the reports circulated by Bungey 

“that he was, indeed, a fearful nigromancer, who had 
much helped the earl in his emprise.” The'fearl’s address 
to his guests in behalf both of Warner and Sibyll — the 
high state accorded to the student, reached even the 
Sanctuary ; for the fugitives there easily contrived to 
learn all the gossip of the city. Judge of the effect the 
tale produced upon the envious Bungey — judge of the 
representations it enabled him to make to the credulous 
duchess ! It was clear now to Jaequetta, as the sun in 
noon-day, that Warwick rewarded the evil-predicting 
astrologer for much dark and secret service, which Biin- 
gey, had she listened to him, might have frustrated ; and 
she promised the friar that, if ever again she had the 
power, Warner and the Eureka should be placed at his 
sole mercy and discretion. 

The friar himself, however, growing very weary of the 


406 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

dulness of the Sanctuary, and covetous of the advantages 
enjoyed by Adam, began to meditate acquiescence in the 
fashion of the day, and a transfer of his allegiance to the 
party in power. Emboldened by the clemency of the 
victors — learning that no rewards for his own apprehen- 
sion had been offered — hoping that the stout earl would 
forget or forgive the old offence of the waxen eflBgies — 
and aware of the comparative security his friar’s gown 
and cowl afforded him, he resolved one day to venture 
forth from his retreat. He even flattered himself that he 
could cajole Adam — whom he really believed the possessor 
of some high and weird secrets, but whom otherwise he 
despised as a very weak creature — into forgiving his 
past brutalities, and soliciting the earl to take him into 
favor. 

At dusk, then, and by the aid of one of the subalterns 
of the Tower, whom he had formerly made his friend, the 
friar got admittance into Warner’s chamber. Now it so 
chanced that Adam, having his own superstitions, had 
lately taken it into his head that all the various disasters 
which had befallen the Eureka, together with all the little 
blemishes and defects that yet marred its construction, 
were owing to the want of the diamond bathed in the 
mystic moonbeams, which his German authority had long 
so emphatically prescribed — and now that a monthly 
stipend far exceeding his wants was at his disposal — and 
that it became him to do all possible honor to the earl’s 
patronage, he resolved that the diamond should be no 
longer absent from the operations it was to influence. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 40t 

He obtained one of passable size and sparkle, exposed it 
the due number of nights to the new moon, and bad 
already prepared its place in the Eureka, and was con- 
templating it with solemn joy, when Bungey entered. 

“Mighty brother,” said the friar, bowing to the 
ground, “be merciful as thou art strong I Yerily thou 
hast proved thyself the magician, and I but a poor wretch 
in comparison — for lo I thou art rich and honored, and 
I poor and proscribed. Deign to forgive thine enemy, 
and take him as thy slave by right of conquest. Oh, 
Cogsbones I — oh, Gemini I what a jewel thou hast 
got I ” 

“ Depart I Thou disturbest me,” said Adam, oblivious, 
in his absorption, of the exact reasons for his repug- 
nance, but feeling indistinctly that something very loath- 
some and hateful was at his elbow, and, as he spoke, he 
fitted the diamond into its socket. 

“What I a jewel — a diamond ! — in the — in the — in the 
— MECHANICAL 1 ” faltered the friar, in profound astonish- 
ment, his mouth watering at the sight. If the Eureka 
were to be envied before, how much more enviable now ! 
“ If ever I get thee again, 0 ugly talisman ! ” he muttered 
to himself, “ I shall know where to look for something 
better than a pot to boil eggs I ” 

“ Depart, I say I ” repeated Adam, turning round at 
last, and shuddering as he now clearly recognized the 
friar, and recalled his malignity. “Darest thou molest 
me still ? ” 

The friar abjectly fell on his knees, and, after a long 


408 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

exordium of penitent excuses, entreated the scholar to 
intercede in his favor with the earl. 

“I want not all thy honors and advancement, great 
Adam — 1 want only to serve thee, trim thy furnace, and 
hand thee thy tools, and work out my apprenticeship 
under thee, master. As for the earl, he will listen to 
thee, I know, if thou tellest him that I had the trust of 
his foe, the duchess ; that I can give him all her closest 
secrets ; that I ” 

“Avaunt 1 Thou art worse than I deemed thee, 
wretch! Cruel and ignorant I knew thee — and now, 
mean and perfidious ! I work with thee! I commend to 
the earl a living disgrace to the name of scholar 1 
Never ! If thou wantest bread and alms, those I can 
give, as a Christian gives to want; but trust, and honor, 
and learned repute, and noble toils, those are not for the 
impostor and the traitor. There — there — there!” And 
he ran to a closet, took out a handful of small coins, and, 
pushing him to the door, called to the servants to see his 
visitor to the gates. The friar turned round with a scowl, 
lie did not dare to utter a threat, but he vowed a vow in 
his soul, and went his way. 

It chanced, some days after this, that Adam, in one of 
his musing rambles about the precincts of the Tower, 
which (since it was not then inhabited as a palace) was 
all free to his rare and desultory wanderings, came by 
some workmen employed in repairing a bombard ; and,, 
as whatever was of mechanical art always woke his 
interest, he paused, and pointed out to them a very simple 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 4C9 

improvement which would necessarily tend to make the 
balls go farther and more direct to their object. The 
principal workman, struck with his remarks, ran to one 
of the officers of the Tower ; the officer came to listen 
to the learned man, and then went to the Earl of War- 
wick to declare that Master Warner had the most won- 
derful comprehension of military mechanism. The earl 
sent for Warner, seized at once upon the very simple 
truth he suggested as to the proper width of the bore, 
ana holding him in higher esteem than he had ever done 
before, placed some new cannon he was constructing 
under his superintendence. As this care occupied but 
little of his time, Warner was glad to show gratitude to 
the earl, looking upon the destructive engines simply as 
mechanical contrivances, and wholly unconscious of the 
new terror he gave to his name. 

Soon did the indignant and conscious-stricken Duchess 
of Bedford hear, in the Sai\ctuary, that the fell wizard 
she had saved from the clutches of Bungey was preparing 
the most dreadful, infallible, and murtherous instruments 
of w^ar, against the possible return of her son-in-law ! 

Leaving Adam to his dreams,* and his toils, and his 
horrible reputation, we return to the world upon the sur- 
face — the Life of Action. 


II —35 


410 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


CHAPTER II. 

The Prosperity of the Outer Show— The Cares of the Inner Man. 

The position of the king-raaker was, to a superficial 
observer, such as might gratify to the utmost the ambi- 
tion and the pride ©f man. He had driven from the land 
one of the most gorgeous princes, and one of the boldest 
warriors that ever sat upon a throne. He had changed 
a dynasty without a blow. In the alliances of his daugh- 
ters, whatever chanced, it seemed certain that by one or 
the other, his posterity would be the kings of England. 

The easiness of his victory appeared to prove of itself 
that the hearts of the people were with him ; and the 
parliament that he hastened to summon, confirmed by law 
the revolution achieved by a bloodless sword.* 

Nor was there aught abroad which menaced disturb- 
ance to the peace at home. Letters from the Countess 
of Warwick and Lady Anne announced their triumphant 
entry at Paris, where Margaret of Anjou was received 
with honors never before rendered but to a queen oi 
Prance. 

A solemn embassy, meanwhile, was preparing to pro- 
ceed from Paris to London, to congratulate Henry, and 
establish a permanent treaty of peace and commerce. f 


* Lingard, Hume, &c. 


f Rymer, xi., 683-690. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 411 

While Charles of Burgundy himself (the only ally left to 
Edward), supplicated for the continuance of amicable 
relations with England ; stating that they were formed 
with the country, not with any special person who might 
wear the crown ; * and forbade his subjects by proclama- 
tion, to join any enterprise for the recovery of his throne, 
which Edward might attempt. 

The conduct of Warwick, whom the Parliament had 
declared, conjointly with Clarence, protector of the realm 
during the minority of the Prince of Wales, was worthy 
of the triumph he had obtained. He exhibited now a 
greater genius for government than he had yet displayed. 
For all his passions were nerved to the utmost, to con- 
summate his victory, and sharpen his faculties. He 
united mildness towards the defeated faction, with a firm- 
ness which repelled all attempt at insurrection, f 

In contrast to the splendor that surrounded his daughter 
Anne, all accounts spoke of the humiliation to which 
Charles subjected the exiled king, and in the Sanctuary, 
amidst homicides and felons, the wife of the earl’s defeated 
foe gave birth to a male child, baptized and christened 
(says the chronicler), “as the son of a common man.” 
For the Avenger and his children were regal authority 
and gorgeous pomp — for the Fugitive and his offspring 
were the bread of the exile, or the refuge of the outlaw. 

But still the earl’s prosperity was hollow — the statue 
of brass stood on limbs of clay. — The position of a man 
with the name of subject, but the authority of king, was 


* Hume — Comines. 


f Habington. 


412 


THE LAST OP THE BAEONS. 


an unpopular anomaly in England. In the principal 
trading towns had been long growing up that animosity 
towards the aristocracy, of which Henry YII. availed 
himself to raise a despotism (and which, even in our day 
causes the main disputes of faction) ; but the recent 
revolution was one in which the towns had had no share. 
It was a revolution made by the representatives of the 
barons, and his followers. It was connected with no 
advancement of the middle class — it seemed to the men 
of commerce but the violence of a turbulent and dis- 
appointed nobility. The very name given to Warwick’s 
supporters was unpopular in the towns. They were not 
called the Lancastrians, or the friends of King Henry — 
they were "styled then, and still are so, by the old 
Chronicler, *'The Lords' Party." Most of whatever was 
still feudal — the haughtiest of the magnates — the rudest 
of the yeomanry — the most warlike of the knights — gave 
to Warwick the sanction of their allegiance ; and this 
sanction was displeasing to the intelligence of the towns. 

Classes in all times have a keen instinct of their own 
class-interests. The revolution which the earl had etfected 
was the triumph of aristocracy, its natural results would 
tend to strengthen certainly the moral, and probably the 
constitutional, power already possessed by that martial 

order. The new parliament was their creature Henry 

YI. was a cipher — his son a boy with unknown character, 
and according to vulgar scandal, of doubtful legitimacy, 
seemingly bound hand and foot in the trammels of the 
arch-baron’s mighty house — the earl himself had never 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 413 

scrupled to evince a distaste to the change in society 
which was slowly converting an agricultural into a trading 
population. 

It may be observed, too, that a middle class as rarely 
unites itself with the idols of the populace as with the 
chiefs of a seignorie. The brute attachment of the 
peasants and the mobs to the gorgeous and lavish earl, 
seemed to the burgesses the sign of a barbaric clanship, 
opposed to that advance in civilization towards which 
they half unconsciously struggled. 

And here we must rapidly glance at what, as far as a 
statesman may foresee, would have been the probable 
result of Warwick’s ascendency, if durable and eifectual. 
If attached, by prejudice and birth, to the aristocracry, 
he was yet, by reputation and habit, attached also to the 
popular party— that party more popular than the middle 

class the majority — the masses: — his whole life had 

been one struggle against despotism in the crown. 
Though far from entertaining such schemes as in similar 
circumstances might have occurred to the deep sagacity 
of an Italian patrician for the interest of his order, no 
doubt his policy would have tended to this one aim 
the limitation of the monarchy by the strength of an 
aristocracy endeared to the agricultural population, owing 
to that population its own powers of defence, with the 
wants and grievances of that population thoroughly 
familiar and willing to satisfy the one and redress the 
other : in short, the great baron would have secured and 
promoted liberty according to the notions of a seigneur 
35 * 


414 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

and a Norman, by making the king but the first noble- 
man of the realm. Had the policy lasted long enough 
to succeed, the subsequent despotism, which changed a 
limited into an absolute monarchy under the Tudors, 
would have been prevented, with all the sanguinary 
reaction, in which the Stuarts were the sufferers. The 
earPs family, and his own “large father-like heart,” had 
ever been opposed to religious persecution ; and timely 
toleration to the Lollards might have prevented the long^ 
delayed revenge of their posterity — the Puritans. Gra- 
dually, perhaps, might the system he represented (of the 
whole consequences of which he was unconscious) have 
changed monarchic into aristocratic government, resting, 
however, upon broad and popular institutions ; but no 
doubt, also, the middle, or rather the commercial, class, 
with all the blessings that attend their power, would have 
risen much more slowly than when made as they were 
already, partially under Edward lY., and more sys- 
tematically under Henry YII., the instrument for destroy- 
ing feudal aristocracy, and thereby establishing for a long 
and fearful interval, the arbitrary rule of the single 
tyrant. Warwick’s dislike to the commercial biasses of 
Edward was, in fact, not a patrician prejudice alone. It 
required no great sagacity to perceive that Edward had 
designed to raise up a class that, though powerful when 
employed against the barons, would long be impotent 
against the encroachments of the crown; and the earl 
viewed that class not only as foes to his own order, but 
as tools for the destruction of the ancient liberties. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


415 


Without presuming to decide which policy, upon the 
whole, would have been the happier for England — the 
one that based a despotism on the middle class, or the 
one that founded an aristocracy upon popular affection, 
it was clear to the more enlightened burgesses of the 
great towns, that between Edward of York and the Earl 
of Warwick a vast principle was at stake, and the com- 
mercial king seemed to them a more natural ally than the 
feudal baron ; and equally clear is it to us now, that the 
true spirit of the age fought for the false Edward, and 
against the honest earl. 

Warwick did not, how^ever, apprehend any serious 
results from the passive distaste of the trading towns. 
His martial spirit led him to despise the least martial part 
of the population. He knew that the towns would not 
rise in arms, so long as their charters were respected ; 
and that slow undermining hostility which exists only in 
opinion, his intellect, so vigorous in immediate dangers, 
was not far-sighted enough to comprehend. More direct 
cause for apprehension would there have been to a sus- 
picious mind in the demeanor of the earPs colleague in 
the Protectorate — the Duke of Clarence. It was obvi- 
ously Warwick’s policy to satisfy this weak but ambitious 
person. The duke was, as before agreed, declared heir 
to the vast possessions of the house of York. He was 
invested with the Lieutenancy of Ireland, but delayed 
his departure to his government till the arrival of the 
Prince of Wales. The personal honors accorded him in 
the meanwhile were those due to a sovereign ; but still 


416 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

the duke’s orow was moody, though, if the earl noticed 
it, Clarence rallied into seeming cheerfulness, and reite- 
rated pledges of faith and friendship. 

The manner of Isabel to her father was varying and 
uncertain : at one time hard and cold ; at another, as if 
in the reaction of secret remorse, she would throw her- 
self into his arms, and pray him, weepingly, to forgive 
her wayward humors. But the curse of the earl’s posi- 
tion was that which he had foreseen before quitting Am- 
boise, and which, more or less, attends upon those who, 
from whatever cause, suddenly desert the party with 
which all their associations, whether of fame or friend- 
ship, have been interwoven. His vengeance against one 
had comprehended many still dear to him. He was not 
only separated from his old companions in arms, but he 
had driven their most eminent into exile. He stood 
alone amongst men whom the habits of an active life had 
indissolubly connected, in his mind, with recollections of 
wrath and wrong. Amidst that princely company which 
begirt him, he hailed no familiar face. Even many of 
those who most detested Edward (or rather the Wood- 
villes), recoiled from so startling a desertion to the Lan- 
castrian foe. It was a heavy blow to a heart already 
bruised and sore, when the fiery Raoul de Fulke, who had 
so idolized Warwick, that, despite his own high lineage, 
he had worn his badge upon his breast, sought him at 
the dead of night, and thus said — 

“Lord of Salisbury and Warwick, I once offered to 
serve thee as a vassal, if thou wouldst wrestle with lewd 
Edward for the crown which only a manly brow should 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


41'7 


wear; and hadst thou now returned, as Henry of Lan- 
caster returned of old, to gripe the sceptre of the Nor- 
man with a conqueror’s hand, I had been the first to cry, 
‘Long live King Richard — namesake and emulator of 
Coeur de Lion ! ’ But to place upon the throne yon 
monk puppet, and to call on brave hearts to worship a 
patterer of aves and a counter of beads — to fix the suc- 
cession of England in the adulterous offspring of Mar- 
garet,* the butcher-harlot — to give the power of the 
realm to the men against whom thou thyself hast often 
led me to strive with lance and battle-axe, is to open a 
path which leads but to dishonor, and thither Raoul de 
Eulke follows not even the steps of the Lord of War- 
wick. Interrupt me not — speak not I As thou to Ed- 
ward, so I now to thee, forswear allegiance, and I bid 
thee farewell for ever I” 

“I pardon thee,” answered Warwick; “and if ever 
thou art wronged as I have been, thy heart will avenge 
me — Go!” ^ 

* One of the greatest obstacles to the cause of the Red Rose, 
was the popular belief that the young prince was not Henry’s son. 
Had that belief not been widely spread and firmly maintained, the 
lords who arbitrated between Henry VI. and Richard Duke of York, 
in October, 1460, could scarcely have come to the resolution to set 
aside the Prince of Wales altogether, to accord Henry the crown 
for his life, and declare the Duke of York his heir. Ten years 
previously (in November, 1450), before the young prince was born 
or thought of, and the proposition was really just and reasonable, 
it was moved in the House of Commons to declare Richard Duke 
of York next heir to Henry, which, at least, by birthright, he cer- 
tainly was ; but the motion met with little favor, and the mover was 
sent to the Tower. 


2b 


41S THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

Bub when this haughty visitor was gone, the earl 
covered his face with his hands, and groaned aloud. A 
defection perhaps even more severely felt came next. 
Katherine de Bonville had been the earl’s favorite sister . 
he wrote to her at the convent to which she had retired, 
praying her affectionately to come to London, “ and cheer 
his vexed spirit, and learn the true cause, not to be told 
by letter, which had moved him to things once farthest 
from his thought.” The messenger came back — the 
letter unopened — for Katherine had left the convent, and 
fled into Burgundy, distrustful, as it seemed to Warwick, 
of her own brother. The nature of this lion-hearted 
man was, as we have seen, singularly kindly, frank, and 
affectionate ; and now in the most critical, the most 
anxious, the most tortured period of his life, confidence 
and affection were forbidden to him. What had he not 
given for one hour of the soothing company of his wife, 
the only being in the world to whom his pride could have 
communicated the grief of his heart, or the doubts of his 
conscience I Alas I never on earth should he hear that 
soft voice again ! Anne, too, the gentle, child-like Anne, 
was afar — but she was happy — a basker in the brief sun- 
shine, and blind to the darkening clouds. His elder child, 
with her changeful moods, added but to his disquiet and 
unhappiness. Next to Edward, Warwick, of all the 
House of York, had loved Clarence, though a closer and 
more domestic intimacy had weakened the affection, by 
lessening the esteem. But looking farther into the future, 
he now saw in this alliance the seeds of many a rankling 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS, 


419 


sorrow. The nearer Anne and ner spouse to power and 
fame, the more bitter the jealousy of Clarence and his 
wife. Thus, in the very connections which seemed most 
to strengthen his house, lay all which must destroy the 
hallowed unity and peace of family and home. 

The Archbishop of York had prudently taken no part 
whatever in the measures that had changed the dynasty 
— he came now to reap the fruits : did homage to Henry 
VI., received the Chancellor's seals, and recommenced 
intrigues for the Cardinal’s hat. But between the bold 
warrior and the wily priest there could be but little of 
the endearment of brotherly confidence and love. With 
Montagu alone could the earl confer in cordiality and 
unreserve ; and their similar position, and certain points 
of agreement in their characters, now more clearly brought 
out and manifest, served to make their friendship for each 
other firmer and more tender, in the estrangement of all 
other ties, than ever it had been before. But the marquis 
was soon compelled to depart from Londpn, to his post 
as warden of the northern marches ; for Warwick had 
not the rash presumption of Edward, and neglected no 
precaution against the return of the dethroned king. 

So there, alone, in pomp and in power, vengeance con- 
summated, ambition gratified, but love denied — with an 
aching heart and a fearless front — amidst old foes made 
prosperous, and old friends alienated and ruined — stood 
the king-maker ! and, day by day, the untimely streaks 
of grey showed more and more, amidst the raven curls 
of the strong man. 


420 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


CHAPTER III. 

Farther views into the heart of Man, and the conditions of Power. 

But woe to any man who is called to power with ex- 
aggerated expectations of his ability to do good I Woe 
to the man whom the populace have esteemed a popular 
champion, and who is suddenly made the guardian of 
law I The Commons of England had not bewailed the 
exile of the good earl simply for love of his groaning 
table, and admiration of his huge battle-axe — it was not 
merely either in pity, or from fame, that his “ name had 
sounded in every song” — and that, to use the strong ex- 
pression of the chronicler, the people “judged that the 
sun was clearly taken from the world when he was 
absent.” 

They knew him as one who had ever sought to correct 
the abuses of power — to repair the wrongs of the poor; 
who, even in war, had forbidden his knights to slay the 
common men. He was regarded, therefore, as a reform- 
er; and wonderful, indeed, were the things, proportioned 
to his fame and his popularity, which he was expected to 
accomplish ; and his thorough knowledge of the English 
character, and experience of every class — especially the 
lowest as the highest — conjoined with the vigor of his 
robust understanding, unquestionably enabled him, from 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 421 

the very first, to put a stop to the lawless violences which 
had disgraced the rule of Edward. The infamous spolia- 
tions of the royal purveyors ceased — the robber-like ex- 
cesses of the ruder barons and gentry were severely pun- 
ished — the country felt that a strong hand held the reins 
of power. But what is justice, when men ask miracles ? 
The peasant and mechanic were astonished that wages 
were not doubled — that bread was not to be had for 
asking — that the disparities of life remained the same, 
the rich still rich, the poor still poor. In the first days 
of the revolution. Sir Geoffrey Gates, the freebooter, 
little comprehending the earl’s merciful policy, and anx- 
ious naturally to turn a victory into its accustomed fruit 
of rapine and pillage, placed himself at the head of an 
armed mob, marched from Kent to the snburbs of Lon- 
don, and, joined by some of the miscreants from the 
different Sanctuaries, burned and pillaged, ravished and 
slew. The earl quelled this insurrection with spirit and 
ease ; * and great was the praise he received thereby. 
But all-pervading is the sympathy the poor feel for the 
poor 1 And when even the refuse of the populace once 
felt the sword of Warwick, some portion of the popular 
enthusiasm must have silently deserted him. 

Robert Ililyard, who had borne so large a share in the 
restoration of the Lancastrians, now fixed his home in 
the metropolis ; and anxious as ever to turn the current 
to the popular profit, he saw, with rage and disappoint- 


II. — 36 


Hall. Habington. 


422 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


merit, that as yet no party but the nobles had really 
triumphed. He had longed to achieve a revolution that 
might be called the People’s ; and he had abetted one that 
was called “the Lords’ doing.” The affection he,h-ad 
felt for Warwick arose principally from his regarding him 
as an instrument to prepare society for the more demo- 
cratic changes he panted to effect ; and, lo ! he himself 
had been the instrument to strengthen the aristocracy- 
Society resettled after the storm — the noble retained his 
armies — the demagogue had lost his mobs ! Although, 
through England were scattered the principles which were 
ultimately to destroy feudalism — to humble the fierce 
barons into silken lords — to reform the church — to ripen 
into a commonwealth, through the representative system, 
— the principles were but in the germ ; and when Hilyard 
mingled with the traders or the artisans of London, and 
sought to form a party which might comprehend some- 
thing of steady policy and definite object, he found him- 
self regarded as a visionary fanatic by some, as a danger- 
ous dare-devil by the rest. Strange to say, Warwick 
was the only man who listened to him with attention ; 
the man behind the age, and the man before the age, 
ever have some inch of ground in common : both desired 
to increase liberty ; both honestly and ardently loved the 
masses ; but each in the spirit of his order : Warwick 
defended freedom as against the throne, Hilyard as 
against the barons. Still, notwithstanding their differ- 
ences, each was so convinced of the integrity of the other, 
that it wanted only a foe in the field to unite them as be- 


TUE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


423 


fore. The natural ally of the popular baron was the 
leader of the populace. 

Some minor, but still serious, griefs added to the em- 
barrassment of the earPs position. Margaret’s jealousy 
had bound him to defer all rewards to lords and others, 
and encumbered with a provisional council all great acts 
of government, all grants of offices, lands, or benefits.'*' 
And who knows not the expectations of men after a suc- 
cessful revolution ! The royal exchequer was so empty, 
that even the ordinary household was suspended ; f and 
as ready money was then prodigiously scarce, the mighty 
revenues of Warwick barely sufficed to pay the expenses 
of the expedition, which, at his own cost, liad restored 
the Lancastrian line. Hard position, both to generosity 
and to prudence, to put off and apologize to just claims 
and valiant service ! 

With intense, wearying, tortured anxiety, did the earl 
await the coming of Margaret and her son. The condi- 
tions imposed on him in their absence crippled all his 
resources. Several even of the Lancastrian nobles held 
aloof, while they saw no authority but Warwick’s. Above 
all, he relied upon the effect that the young Prince of 
Wales’s presence, his beauty, his graciousness, his frank 
spirit — mild as his father’s, bold as his grandsire’s — 
would create upon all that inert and neul'-al mass of the 
public, the affection of which, once gained makes the 

* Sharon Turner. 

f See Ellis’s “Original Letters,” from Harleian MSS., second 
Berks, vol. i., letter 42. 


424 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


solid strength of a government. The very appearance 
of that prince would at once dispel the slander on his 
birth. His resemblance to his heroic grandfather would 
suflBce to win him all the hearts, by which, in absence, he 
was regarded as a stranger, a dubious alien. How often 
did the earl groan forth — “ If the prince were but here, 
all were won!” Henry was worse than a cipher — he 
was an eternal embarrassment. His good intentions, his 
scrupulous piety, made him ever ready to interfere. The 
church had got hold of him already, and prompted him 
to issue proclamations against the disguised Lollards, 
which would have lost him, at one stroke, half his sub- 
jects. This Warwick prevented, to the great discontent 
of the honest prince. The moment required all the pres- 
tige that an imposing presence and a splendid court 
could bestow. And Henry, glad of the poverty of his 
exchequer, deemed it a sin to make a parade of earthly 
glory. “Heaven will punish me again,” said he, meekly, 
“if, just delivered from a dungeon, I gild my unworthy 
self with all the vanities of perishable power.” 

There was not a department which the chill of this 
poor king’s virtue did not somewhat benumb. The gay 
youths, who had revelled in the alluring court of Edward 
IT., heard, with disdainful mockery, the grave lectures 
of Henry on the length of their love-locks and the beakers 
of their shoes. The brave warriors presented to him for 
praise were entertained with homilies on the guilt of war. 
Even poor Adam was molested and invaded by Henry’s 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 425 

pious apprehensions that he was seeking, by vain know- 
ledge, to be superior to the will of Providence. 

Yet, albeit perpetually irritating and chafing the impe- 
tuous spirit of the earl, the earl, strange to say, loved the 
king more and more. This perfect innocence, this absense 
from guile and self-seeking, in the midst of an age never 
excelled for fraud, falsehood, and selfish simulation, moved 
Warwick’s admiration as well as pity. Whatever con- 
trasted Edward lY. had a charm for him. He schooled 
his hot temper, and softened his deep voice, in that holy 
presence ; and the intimate persuasion of the hollowness 
of all worldly greatness itself had forced upon the earl’s 
mind, made something congenial between the meek saint 
and the fiery warrior. For the hundredth time, groaned 
Warwick, as he quitted Henry’s presence — 

“Would that my gallant son-in-law were come! his 
spirit will soon learn how to govern, then Warwick may 
be needed no more ! I am weary — sore weary of the task 
of ruling men ! ” 

“ Holy St. Thomas ! ” bluntly exclaimed Marmaduke, 
to whom these sad words were said — “ whenever you visit 
the king, you come back — pardon me, my lord — half un- 
manned. He would make a monk of you!” 

“Ah ! ” said Warwick, thoughtfully — “ there have been 
greater marvels than that. Our boldest fathers often died 
the meekest shavelings. An’ I had ruled this realm as 
long as Henry — nay, an’ this same life I lead now were 
to continue two years, with its broil and fever, I could 
well conceive the sweetness of the cloister and repose. 

3fi * 


426 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


How sets the wind ? Against them still ! — against them 
still 1 I cannot bear this suspense ! 

The winds had ever seemed malignant to Margaret of 
Anjou, but never more than now. So long a continuance 
of stormy and adverse weather was never known in the 
memory of man ; and we believe that it has scarcely its 
parallel in history. 

The earPs promise to restore King Henry was fulfilled 
in October. From November to the following April, 
Margaret, with the young and royal pair, and the Coun- 
tess of Warwick, lay at the sea-side, waiting for a wind.* 
Thrice, in defiance of all warnings from the mariners of 
Harfleur, did she put to sea, and thrice was she driven 
back on the coast of Normandy — her ships much damaged. 
Her friends protested that this malice of the elements 
was caused by sorcery f — a belief which gained ground 
in England, exhilarated the Duchess of Bedford, and 
gave new fame to Bungey, who arrogated all the merit, 
and whose weather wisdom, indeed, had here borne out 
his predictions. Many besought Margaret not to tempt 
Providence, nor to trust the sea ; but the queen was firm 
to her purpose, and her son laughed at omens — yet still 
the vessels could only leave the harbor to be driven back 
upon the land. 

Day after day, the first question of Warwick, when the 
sun rose, was, “ How sets the wind ? ” Night after night, 
ere he retired to rest — “ 111 sets the wind ! ” sighed the 


* Fabyan, 502, 


•}• Hall. “ Warkwortli Chronicle. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 427 

earl. The gales that forbade the coming of the royal 
party, sped to the unwilliog lingerers — courier after 
courier — envoy after envoy, and at length Warwick, un 
able to bear the sickening suspense at distance, went 
himself to Dover,* and from its white cliffs looked, hour 
by hour, for the sails which were to bear “ Lancaster and 
its fortunes.” The actual watch grew more intolerable 
than the distant expectation, and the earl sorrowfully 
departed to his castle of Warwick, at w'hich Isabel and 
Clarence then were. Alas 1 where the old smile of home ? 


CHAPTER IT. 

The Return of Edward of York. 

And the winds still blew, and storm was on the tide, 
and Margaret came not ; when, in the gusty month of 
March, the fishermen of the Humber beheld a single ship, 
without flag or pennon, and sorely stripped and rivelled 
by adverse blasts, gallantly struggling towards the shore. 
The vessel was not of English build, and resembled, in 
its bulk and fashion, those employed by the Easterlings 
in their trade; — half merchantman, half war-ship. 

The villagers of Ravenspur — the creek of which, the 
vessel now rapidly made to — imagining that it was some 
trading craft in distress, grouped round the banks, and 


* Hall. 


428 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


some put out their boats. But the vessel held on its way, 
and, as the water was swelled by the tide, and unusually 
deep, silently cast anchor close ashore, a quarter of a 
mile from the crowd. 

The first who leapt on land, was a knight of lofty sta- 
ture, and in complete armor, richly inlaid with gold 
arabesques. To him succeeded another, also in mail, 
and, though well built and fair proportioned, of less im- 
posing presence. And then, one by one, the womb of 
the dark ship gave forth a number of armed soldiers, in- 
finitely larger than it could have been supposed to con- 
tain, till the knight, who first landed, stood the centre of 
a group of five hundred men. Then, were lowered from 
the vessel, barbed and caparisoned, some five score horses ; 
and, finally, the sailors and rowers, armed but with steel 
caps and short swords, came on shore, till not a man was 
left on board. 

“Now praise,” said the chief knight, “to God and St. 
George, that we have escaped the water ! and not with 
invisible winds, but with bodily foes must our war be 
waged.” 

''Beau s/re,” cried one knight who had debarked im- 
mediately after the speaker, and who seemed, from his 
bearing and equipment, of higher rank than those that 
followed — “beau sire, this is a slight army to reconquer 
a king’s realm I Pray Heaven, that our bold companions 
have also escaped the deep ! ” 

“Why verily, we are not e!io’, at the best, to spare one 
man,” said the chief knight gaily, *• but, lo ! we are not 


429 


the last op the barons. 

without welcomers.” And he pointed to the crowd of 
villagers who now slowly neared the warlike group, but 
halting at a little distance, continued to gaze at them in 
some anxiety and alarm. 

“Ho there I good fellows I ’’ cried the leader, striding 
towards the throng — “what name give you to this 
village ? 

“ Ravenspur, please your worship,” answered one of the 
peasants. 

“Ravenspur — hear you that, lords and friends? 
Accept the omen ! On this spot landed, from exile, 
Henry of Bolingbroke, known, afterwards, in our annals 
as King Henry lY. I Bare is the soil of corn and of 
trees — it disdains meaner fruit ; it grows kings! Hark !” 
— The sound of a bugle was heard at a little distance, 
and in a few moments, a troop of about a hundred men 
were seen rising above an undulation in the ground, and 
as the two bands recognized each other, a shout of joy 
was given and returned. 

As this new reinforcement advanced, the peasantry and 
fishermen, attracted by curiosity and encouraged by the 
peaceable demeanor of the debarkers, drew nearer, and 
mingled with the first comers. 

“What manner of men be ye, and what want ye?” 
asked one of the by-standers, who seemed of better nur- 
turing than the rest, and who, indeed, was a small franklin. 

No answer was returned by those he more immediately 
addressed, but the chief knight heard the question, and 
suddenly unbuckling his helmet, and giving it to one of 
3k 


430 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


those beside him, he turned to the crowd a countenance 
of singular beauty, at once animated and majestic, and 
said, in a loud voice, “We are Englishmen, like you, and 
we come here to claim our rights. Ye seem tall fellows 
and honest. Standard-bearer, unfurl our flag I ” And, 
as the ensign suddenly displayed the device of a sun, in 
a field azure, the chief continued, ‘‘March under this 
banner, and for every day ye serve, ye shall have a month’s 
hire.” 

“ Marry I ” quoth the franklin, with a suspicious, 
sinister look, “ these be big words. And who are you, sir 
knight, who would levy men in King Henry’s kingdom ? ” 

“Your knees, fellows!’' cried the second knight. 
“Behold your true liege and suzerain, Edward IT. ! 
Long live King Edward ! ” 

The soldiers caught up the cry, and it was re-echoed 
lustily by the smaller detachment that now reached the 
spot ; but no answer came from the crowd. They looked 
at each other in dismay, and retreated rapidly from their 
place amongst the troops. In fact, the whole of the j 
neighboring district was devoted to Warwick, and many 
of the peasantry about had joined the former rising under 
Sir John Coniers. The franklin alone retreated not with 
the rest ; he was a bluff, plain, bold fellow, with good 
English blood in his veins. And when the shout ceased, 
he* said, shortly, “We, hereabouts, know no king, but 
King Henry. We fear you would impose upon us. We 
cannot believe that a great lord like him you call Edward 
IV. would land, with a handful of men, to encounter: th-i 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 431 

armies of Lord Warwick: We forewarn you to get into 
your ship, and go back as fast as ye came, for the stomach 
of England is sick of brawls and blows ; and what ye 
devise is treason ! ” 

Forth from the new detachment stepped a youth of 
small stature, not in armor, and with many a weather 
stain on his gorgeous dress. He laid his hand upon the 
franklin’s shoulder : “ Honest and plain-dealing fellow,’ 
said he, “you are right: pardon the foolish outburst of 
these brave men, who cannot forget as yet that their 
chief has worn the crown. We come back not to disturb 
this realm, nor to effect aught against King Henry, whom 
the saints have favored. No, by St. Paul, we come but 
back to claim our lands unjustly forfeit. My noble bro- 
ther here is not king of England, since the people will it 
not, but he is Duke of York, and he will be contented 
if assured of the style and lands our father left him. For 
me, called Richard of Gloucester, I ask nothing, but 
leave to spend my manhood where I have spent my youth, 
under the eyes of my renowned godfather, Richard 
Nevile, Earl of Warwick. So report of us. Whither 
leads yon road ? ” 

“ To York,” said the franklin, softened, despite his 
judgment, by the irresistible suavity of the voice that 
addressed him. 

“ Thither will we go, my lord duke, and brother, with 
vonr leave,” said Prince Richard, “peaceably and as 
petitioners. God save ye, friends and countrymen, pray 
for us, that King Henry and the parliament may do us 


432 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

justice. We are not over-rich now, but better times 
may come. Largess ! ” and filling both hands with coins 
from his gipsire, he tossed the bounty among the peasants. 

“MVZe tonnere! What means he with this humble 
talk of King Henry and the parliament ? ’’ whispered 
Edward to the Lord Say, while the crowd scrambled for 
the largess, and Prichard smilingly mingled amongst them, 
and conferred with the franklin. 

“ Let him alone, I pray you, my liege ; I guess his 
wise design. And now for our ships. What orders for 
the master?” 

“ Eor the other vessels let them sail or anchor as they 
list. But for the bark -that has borne Edward king of 
England to the land of his ancestors there is no return ! ” 

The royal adventurer then beckoned the Flemish master 
of the ship, who, with every sailor aboard, had debarked, 
and the loose dresses of the mariners made a strong con- 
trast to the mail of the warriors with whom they mingled. 

“ Friend I ” said Edward, in French, “ thou hast said 
that thou wilt share my fortunes, and that thy good fel- 
lows are no less free of courage and leal iu trust.” 

“ It is so, sire. Not a man who has gazed on thy face, 
and heard thy voice, but longs to serve one on whose 
brow Nature has written king^ 

“And trust me,” said Edward, “ no prince of my blood 
shall be dearer to me than you and yours, my friends in 
danger and in need. And sith it be so, the ship that 
hath borne such hearts and such hopes should, iu sooth, 
know no meaner freight. Is all prepared ? ” 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS 


433 


“Yes, sire, as you ordered. The train is laid for twie 
brennen.” 

“Up, then, with the fiery signal, and let it tell, from 
cliff to cliff, from town to town, that Edward the Plan- 
tagenet, once returned to England, leaves it but for the 
grave ! ” 

The master bowed, and smiled grimly. The sailors, 
who had been prepared for the burning, arranged before 
betw^een the master and the prince, and whose careless 
hearts Edward had thoroughly won to his person and his 
cause, followed the former towards the ship, and stood 
silently grouped around the shore. The soldiers, less 
informed, gazed idly on, and Richard now regained Ed- 
ward’s side. 

“Reflect,’^ he said, as he drew him apart, “that, when 
on this spot landed Henry of Bolingbroke, he pane not 
out that he was marching to the throne of Richard 11. 
He professed but to claim his duchy — and men were in- 
fluenced by justice, till they became agents of ambition. 
This be your policy : with two thousand men you are but 
Duke of York ; with ten thousand men you are King of 
England 1 In passing hither, I met with many, and 
sounding the temper of the district, I find it not ripe to 
share your hazard. The world soon ripens when it hath 
to hail success ! ” 

“ 0 young boy^s smooth face I — 0 old man’s deep 
brain I” said Edward, admiringly — “what a king hadst 
thou made!” 

A sudden flush passed over the prince’s pale cheek, 
Jl. — 37 2c 


d34 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

and, ere it died away, a flaming torch was hurled aloft 
in the air — it fell whirling into the ship — a moment, and 
a loud crash — a moment, and a mighty blaze I Tip sprung 
from the deck, along the sails, the sheeted fire — 

“A giant beard of flame.”* 

It reddened the coast — the skies from far and near ; — 
it glowed on the faces and the steel of the scanty army— 
it was seen, miles away, by the warders of many a castle 
manned with the troops of Lancaster; — it brought the 
steed from the stall, the courier to the selle ; — it sped, 
as of old, the beacon-fire that announced to Clytemnestra 
the return of the Argive king. From post to post rode 
the fiery news, till it reached Lord Warwick in his hall, 
King Henry in his palace, Elizabeth in her sanctuary. 
The iron step of the dauntless Edward was once more 
pressed upon the soil of England. 


CHAPTER V. 

The Progress of the Plautagenet. 

A FEW words suffice to explain the formidable arrival 
we have just announced. Though the Duke of Burgundy 
had, by public proclamation, forbidden his subjects to aid 
the exiled Edward ; yet, whether moved by the entreaties 

* 4’Xoyo5 fteyai' rrwyaji'a. 

^sch. Agavi.^ 314 


TT E LAST OF THE BARONS. iHo 

of his wife, ov wea.ried by the remonstrances of his bro- 
ther-in-law, he at length privately gave the dethroned 
monarch 50,000 florins to find troops for himself, and 
secretly hired Flemish and Dutch vessels to convey him 
to England.* But, so small was the force to which the 
bold Edward trusted his fortunes, that it almost seemed 
as if Burgundy sent him forth to his destruction. He 
sailed from the coast of Zealand ; the winds, if less un- 
manageable than those that blew off the sea-port where 
Margaret and her armament awaited a favoring breeze, 
were still adverse. Scared from the coast of Norfolk by 
the vigilance of Warwick and Oxford, w'ho had filled that 
district with armed men, storm and tempest drove him at 
last to Humber Head, where we have seen him land, and 
whence we pursue his steps. 

The little band set out upon its march, and halted for 
the night at a small village two miles inland. Some of 
the men were then sent out on horseback, for news of the 
other vessels, that bore the remnant of the invading force. 
These had, fortunately, effected a landing in various 
places; and, before daybreak, Anthony Woodville, and 
the rest of the troops, had joined the leader of an enter- 
prise that seemed but the rashness of despair ; for its ut- 
most force, including the few sailors allured to the adven- 
turer’s standard, was about two thousand men.f Close 
and anxious was the consultation then held. Each of 


* Comines. Hall. Lingard. S. Turner, 
f Fifteen hundred, according to the Croyland historian. 


43f) THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

the several detachments reported alike of the sullen in- 
difference of the population, which each had sought to 
excite in favor of Edward. Light riders* were despatched 
in various directions, still farther to sound the neighbor- 
liood. All returned ere noon, some bruised and mal- 
treated by the stones and staves of the rustics, and not a 
voice had been heard to echo the cry — “ Long live King 
Edward 1” The profound sagacity of Gloucester’s guile- 
ful counsel was then unanimously recognized. Richard 
despatched a secret letter to Clarence ; and it was re- 
solved immediately to proceed to York, and to publish 
everywhere along the road that the fugitive had returned 
but to claim his private heritage, and remonstrate with 
the parliament which had awarded the Duchy of York 
to Clarence, his younger brother. 

“ Such a power,” saith the Chronicle, “ hath justice 
ever among men, that all, moved by mercy or compassion, 
began either to favor or not to resist him.” And so, 
wearing the Lancastrian Prince of Wales’s cognizance 
of the ostrich feather, crying out as they marched — 
“ Long live King Henry,” the hardy liars, four days after 
their debarkation, arrived at the gates of York. 

Here, not till after much delay and negotiation, Ed- 
ward was admitted only as Duke of York, and upon con- 
dition that he would swear to be a faithful and loyal 
servant to King Henry ; and at the gate by which he was 
to enter, Edward actually took that oath, “ a priest being 


* Hall. 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 457 

by to say mass in the mass tyme, receiving the body of 
our blessed Saviour I ” * 

Edward tarried not long in York ; he pushed forward. 
Two great nobles guarded those districts — Montagu, 
and the Earl of Northumberland, to whom Edward had 
restored his lands and titles, and who, on condition of 
retaining them, had re-entered the service of Lancaster. 
This last, a true server of the times, who had sided with 
all parties, now judged it discreet to remain neutral. f 
But Edward must pass within a few miles of Pontefract 
Castle, where Montagu lay with a force that could de- 
stroy him at a blow. Edward was prepared for the 
assault, but trusted to deceive the marquis, as he had de- 
ceived the citizens of York ; the more for the strong 
personal love Montagu had ever shown him. If not, he 
was prepared equally to die in the field, rather than eat 
again the bitter bread of the exile. But to his incon- 
ceivable joy and astonishment, Montagu, like Northum- 
berland, lay idle and supine. Edward and his little troop 
threaded safely the formidable pass. Alas ! Montagu 
had that day received a formal order from the Duke of 
Clarence, as co-protector of the realm,J to suffer Edward 


* Hall. 

•}■ This is the most favorable interpretation of his conduct ; accord- 
ing to some he was in correspondence with Edward, who showed 
his letters. 

J Our historians have puzzled their brains in ingenious conjec- 
tures of the cause of Montagu’s fatal supineness at this juncture, 
and have passed over the only probable solution of the mystery, 
xvhich is to be found simply enough .stated thus in Stowe’s Chroni- 

37 * 


438 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


to march on, provided his force was small, and he had 
taken the oaths to Henry, and assumed but the title of 
Duke of York, “ for your brother the earl hath had com- 
punctious visitings, and would fain forgive what hath 
passed, for my father’s sake, and unite all factions by 
Edward’s voluntary abdication of the throne — at all 
hazards, I am on my way northward, and you will not 
fight till I come.” The marquis, who knew the con- 
scientious doubts which Warwick had entertained in his 
darker hours, who had no right to disobey the co-pro- 
tector, who knew no reason to suspect Lord Warwick’s 
son-in-law, and who, moreover, was by no means anxious 
to be, himself, the executioner of Edward whom he had 
once so truly loved, — though a little marvelling at War- 
wick’s softness, yet did not discredit the letter, and the 
less regarded the free passage he left to the returned ex- 
iles, from contempt for the smallness of their numbers, 
and his persuasion that if the earl saw fit to alter his 

cle: — “The Marquess Montacute would have fought with King 
Edward, but that he had received letters from the Duke of Clarence 
that he should not fight till he came." This explanation is borne out 
by the Warkworth Chronicler and others, who, in an evident mistake 
of the person addressed, state that Clarence wrote word to Warwick 
not to fight till he came. Clarence could not have written so to 
Warwick, who, according to all authorities, was mustering his troops 
near London, and not in the way to fight Edward ; nor could Clar- 
ence have had authority to issue such commands to his colleague, 
nor would his colleague have attended to them, since we have the 
amplest testimony that Warwick was urging all his captains to 
attack Edward at once. The duke’s order was, therefore clearly 
addressed to Montagu. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 439 

counsels, Edward was still more in his power the farther 
he advanced amidst a hostile population, and towards 
the armies which the Lords Exeter and Oxford were 
already mustering. 

But that free passage was everything to Edward ! It 
made men think that Montagu, as well as Northumber- 
land favored his enterprise ; that the hazard was less rash 
and hopeless than it had seemed ; that Edward counted 
upon finding his most powerful allies among those falsely 
supposed to be his enemies. The popularity Edward 
had artfully acquired amongst the captains of Warwick’s 
own troops, on the march to Middleham, now bested 
him. Many of them were knights and gentlemen residing 
in the very districts through which he passed. They did 
not join him, but they did not oppose. Then, rapidly 
flocked to “the Sun of York,” — first, the adventurers and 
condottieri, who in civil war adopt any side for pay ; 
next came the disappointed, the ambitious, and the needy. 
The hesitating began to resolve, the neutral to take a 
part. From the state of petitioners supplicating a 
pardon, every league the Yorkists marched advanced 
them to the dignity of asserters of a cause. Doncaster 
first, then Nottingham, then Leicester — true to the town 
spirit we have before described — opened their gates to 
the trader prince. 

Oxford and Exeter reached Newark with their force. 
Edward marched on them at once. Deceived as to his 
numbers, they took panic and fled. When once the foe 
flies, friends ever start up from the very earth ! Heredi- 


^40 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


tary partisans — gentlemen, knights, and nobles — now 
flocked fast round the adventurer. Then came Lovell, 
and Cromwell, and D’Eyncourt, ever true to York; and 
Stanley, never true to any cause. Then came the brave 
knights Parr and Norris, and De Burgh ; and no less 
than three thousand retainers belonging to Lord Hast- 
ings — the new man — obeyed the summons of his couriers, 
and joined their chief at Leicester. 

Edward of March, who had landed at Bavenspur with 
a handful of brigands, now saw a king’s army under his 
banner.* Then, the audacious perjurer threw away the 
mask; then, forth went — not the prayer of the attainted 
Duke of York — but the proclamation of the indignant 
king. England now beheld two sovereigns, equal in their 
armies. It was no longer a rebellion to be crushed ; it 
was a dynasty to be decided. 

* The perplexity and confusion which involve the annals of this 
period may be guessed by this — that two historians, eminent for 
research (Lingard and Sharon Turner), differ so widely as to the 
numbers who had now joined Edward, that Lingard asserts that at 
Nottingham he was at the head of fifty or sixty thousand men ; and 
Turner gives him, at the most, between six and seven thousand. 
The latter seems nearer to the truth. We must here regret, that 
Turner’s partiality to the House of York induces him to slur over 
Edward’s detestable perjury at York, and to accumulate all rhetori- 
cal arts to command admiration for his progress — to the prejudice 
of the salutary moral horror we ought to feel for the atrocious 
perfidy and violation of oath to which he owed the first impunity 
that secured the after triumph. 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


441 


CHAPTER VI. 

Lord Warwick, with the Foe in the Field and the Traitor at the 
Hearth. 

Every precaution which human wisdom could foresee 
had Lord Warwick taken to guard against invasion, or 
to crush it at the onset.* All the coasts on which it was 
most probable Edward would land had been strongly 
guarded. And if the Humber had been left without 
regular troops, it was because prudence might calculate 
that the very spot where Edward did land was the very 
last he would have selected — unless guided by fate to his 
destruction — in the midst of an unfriendly population, 
and in face of the armies of Northumberland and of 
Montagu. The moment the earl heard of Edward’s re- 
ception at York — far from the weakness which the false 
Clarence (already in correspondence with Gloucester) 
imputed to him — he despatched to Montagu, by Marma- 
duke Nevile, peremptory orders to intercept Edward’s 
path, and give him battle before he could advance farther 
towards the centre of the island. We shall explain pre- 
sently why this messenger did not reach the marquis. 
But Clarence was some hours before him in his intelli- 
gence and his measures. 


* Hnll. 


442 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

When the earl next heard that Edward had passed 
Pontefract with impunity, and had reached Doncaster, 
he flew first to London, to arrange for its defence ; con- 
signed the care of Henry to the Archbishop of York, 
mustered a force already quartered in the neighborhood 
of the metropolis, and then marched rapidly back to- 
wards Coventry, where he had left Clarence with seven 
thousand men ; while he despatched new messengers to 
Montagu and Northumberland, severely rebuking the 
former for his supineness, and ordering him to march in 
all haste to attack Edward in the rear. The earl’s ac- 
tivity, promptitude, and all-provident generalship, form 
a mournful contrast to the errors, the pusillanimity, and 
the treachery of others, which hitherto, as we have seen, 
made all his wisest schemes abortive. Despite Clarence’s 
sullenness, Warwick had discovered no reason, as yet, to 
doubt his good faith. The oath he had taken — not only 
to Henry, in London, but to Warwick, at Amboise— had 
been the strongest which can bind man to man. If the 
duke had not gained all he had hoped, he had still much 
to lose and much to dread by desertion to Edward. He 
had been the loudest in bold assertions when he heard of 
the invasion ; and above all, Isabel, whose influence over 
Clarence, at that time, the earl over-rated, had, at the 
tidings of so imminent a danger to her father, forgot all 
her displeasure and recovered all her tenderness. 

During Warwick’s brief absence, Isabel had, indeed, 
exerted her utmost power to repair her former wrongs, 
and induce Clarence to be faithful to his oath. Although 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


443 


her inconsistency and irresolution had much weakened 
her influence with the duke, for natures like his are 
governed but by the ascendency of a steady and tranquil 
will, yet still she so far prevailed, that the duke had des- 
patched to Richard a secret courier, informing him that 
he had finally resolved not to desert his father-in-law. 

This letter reached Gloucester as the invaders were on 
their march to Coventry, before the strong walls of which, 
the Duke of Clarence lay encamped. Richard, after 
some intent and silent reflection, beckoned to him his 
familiar Catesby. 

“ Marmaduke Nevile, whom our scouts seized on his 
way to Pontefract, is safe, and in the rear?’’ 

“ Yes, my lord ; prisoners but encumber us j shall I 
give orders to the provost to end his captivity?” 

“Ever ready, Catesby!” said the duke, with a fell 
smile. “No — harkye, Clarence vacillates; if he hold 
firm to Warwick, and the two forces fight honestly against 
us, we are lost ; on the other hand, if Clarence join us, 
his defection will bring not only the men he commands, 
all of whom are the retainers of the York lands and 
duchy, and therefore free from peculiar bias to the earl, 
and easily lured back to their proper chief ; but it will 
set an example that will create such distrust and panic 
amongst the enemy, and give such hope of fresh deser- 
tions to our own men, as will open to us the keys of the 
metropolis. But Clarence, I say, vacillates ; look yon, 
here is his letter from Amboise to King Edward ; see, 
his duchess, Warwick’s very daughter, approves the pro- 


444 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

mise it contains ! If this letter reach Warwick, and 
Clarence knows it is in his hand, George will have no 
option but to join us. He will never dare to face the 
earl, his pledge to Edward once revealed ” 

“Most true ; a very legal subtlety, ray lord,” said the 
lawyer Catesby, admiringly. 

“You can serve us in this. Fall back; join Sir 
Marmaduke ; affect to sympathize with him ; affect to 
side with the earl; affect to make terms for Warwick’s 
amity and favor ; affect to betray us ; affect to have 
stolen this letter. Give it to young Nevile, artfully effect 
his escape, as if against our knowledge, and commend 
him to lose not an hour — a moment — in gaining the earl, 
and giving him so important a forewarning of the medi- 
tated treason of his son-in-law.” 

“ I will do all — I comprehend ; but how will the duke 
learn in time that the letter is on its way to Warwick?” 

“I will see the duke, in his own tent.” 

“And how shall I effect Sir Marmaduke’s escape ?” 

“ Send hither the officer who guards the prisoner ; I 
will give him orders to obey thee in all things.” 

The invaders marched on. The earl, meanwhile, had 
reached Warwick, — hastened thence, to throw himself 
into the stronger fortifications of the neighboring Coven- 
try, without the walls of which Clarence was still en- 
camped ; Edward advanced on the town of Warwick 
thus vacated ; and Richard, at night, rode alone to the 
camp of Clarence.* 


* Hall, and others. 


445 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

The next day, the earl was employed in giving orders 
to his lieutenants to march forth, join the troops of his 
son-in-law, who were a mile from the walls, and advance 
upon Edward, who had that morning quitted Warwick 
town — when, suddenly, Sir Marmaduke Nevile rushed 
into his presence, and, faltering out — “ Beware, beware ! 
placed in his hands the fatal letter which Clarence had 
despatched from Amboise. 

Never did blow more ruthless fall upon man’s heart ! 
Clarence’s perfidy — that might be disdained, but the 
closing lines, which revealed a daughter’s treachery — 
words cannot express the father’s anguish. 

The letter dropped from his hand, a stupor seized his 
senses, and, ere yet recovered, pale men hurried into his 
presence to relate how, amidst joyous trumpets and 
streaming banners, Richard of Gloucester had led the 
Duke of Clarence to the brotherly embrace of Edward.* 

Breaking from these messengers of evil news, that 
could not now surprise, the earl strode on, alone, to his 
daughter’s chamber. 

He placed the letter in her hands, and, folding his 
arms, said — “ What sayest thou of this, Isabel of Clar- 
ence ? ” 

* Hall. The chronicler adds — “ It was no marvell that the Duke 
of Clarence, with so small persuasion and less exhorting, turned 
from the Earl of Warwick’s party, for, as you have heard before, 
this marchandise was labored, conducted, and concluded by a dam- 
sell, when the duke was in the French court, to the earl’s utter 
confusion.” Hume makes a notable mistake in deferring the date 
of Clarence’s desertion to the battle of Jlarnet. 

II.— 38 


446 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

The terror, the shame, the remorse, that seized upon 
the wretc]?ed lady — the death-like lips — the suppressed 
shriek — the momentary torpor, succeeded by the impulse 
which made her fall at her father’s feet, and clasp his 
knees — told the earl, if he had before doubted, that the 
letter lied not — that Isabel had known and sanctioned 
its contents. 

He gazed on her (as she grovelled at his feet) with a 
look that her eyes did well to shun. 

“Curse me not — curse me not!” cried Isabel, awed 
by his very silence. “ It was but a brief frenzy. Evil 
council — evil passion! I was maddened that my boy 
had lost a crown. I repented — I repented — Clarence 
shall yet be true. He hath promised it — vowed it to 
me ; — hath written to Gloucester to retract all — to ” 

“Woman! — Clarence is in Edward’s camp!’^ 

Isabel started to her feet, and uttered a shriek so wild 
and despairing, that at least it gave to her father’s 
lacerated heart the miserable solace of believing the last 
treason had not been shared. A softer expression — one 
of pity, if not of pardon — stole over his dark face. 

“ I curse thee not,” he said ; “ I rebuke thee not. Thy 
sin hath its own penance. Ill omen broods on the hearth 
of the household traitor ! Never more shalt thou see holy 
love in a husband’s smile. His kiss shall have the taint 
of Judas. From his arms thou shalt start with horror, 
as from those of thy wronged father’s betrayer — pei chance 
his deathsraan ! Ill omen broods on the cradle of the 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


447 


child for whom a mother’s ambition was but a daughter's 
perfidy. Woe to thee, wife, and mother I Evpn my for- 
giveness cannot avert thy doom I” \ 

“Kill me — kill me!” exclaimed Isabel, springing to- 
wards him but seeirtg^jhis face averted, his arms folded 
on his breast — that noble bi^east, never again her shelter 
— she fell lifeless on the floor.’*' . 

The earl looked round, to see that ,none were by to 
witness his weakness, took her gently, in his^arms, laid 
her on her couch, , and, .bending over her, a moment, 
prayed God to pardon her. 

He then hastily left the room— ordered her handmaids 
and her litter, and while she,„was yet unconscious, the 
gates of the town opened, and forth through the arch 
went the closed and curtained vehicle which bore the ill- 
fated duchess to the, new, home her husband had made 

* As our narrative does not embrace the future fate of the Duch- 
ess of Clarence, the reader will pardon us if we remind him that 
her firstborn (who bore his illustrious grandfather’s title of Earl of 
Warwick) was cast into prison, on the accession of Henry VII., 
and afterwards beheaded by that king. By birth he was the right- 
ful heir to the throne. The ill-fated Isabel died young (five years 
after the date at which our tale has arrived). One of her female 
attendants was tried and executed on the charge of having poisoned 
her. Clarence lost no time in seeking to supply her place. He 
solicited the hand of Mary of Burgundy, sole daughter and heir 
of Charles the Bold. Edward’s jealousy and fear forbade him to 
listen to an alliance that might, as Lingard observes, enable Clar- 
ence “to employ the power of Burgundy to win the crown of Eng- 
land ; ” and hence arose those dissensions which ended in the secret 
murder of the perjured duke. 




448 THE LAST OF THE BAEONS. 

with her father’s foe 1 The earl watched it from the -mo- 
ment of his tower, and said to himself 

“ I had been unmanned, had I known her within the 
same walls. Now for ever I dismiss her memory and 
her crime. Treachery hath done its worst, and my soul 
is proof against all storms I ” 

At night came messengers from Clarence and Edward, 
who had returned to Warwick town, with offers oi pardon 
to the earl — with promises of favor, power, and grace. 
To Edward, the earl deigned no answer ; to the messen- 
ger of Clarence he gave this — “Tell thy master, I had 
liefer be always like myself, than like a false and a per- 
jured duke, and that I am determined never to leave the 
war till I have lost mine own life, or utterly extinguished 
and put down my foes.”* 

After this terrible defection, neither his remaining 
forces, nor the panic amongst them which the duke’s 
desertion had occasioned, nor the mighty interests in- 
volved in the success of his arms, nor the irretrievable 
advantage which even an engagement of equivocal result 
with the earl in person, would give to Edward, justified 
Warwick in gratifying the anticipations of the enemy — ■ 
that his valor and wrath would urge him into immediate 
and imprudent battle. 

Edward, after the vain bravado of marching up to the 
walls of Coventry, moved on towards London. Thither 
the earl sent Marmaduke, enjoining the Archbishop of 


* Hall. 


449 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

York and the lord mayor but to hold out the city foi 
three days, and he would come to their aid with such a 
force as would insure lasting triumph. For, indeed, 
already were hurrying to his banner, Montagu, burning 
to retrieve his error — Oxford and Exeter, recovered 
from, and chafing at, their past alarm. Thither his 
nephew, Fitzhugh, led the earl’s own clansmen of Middle- 
ham ; thither were spurring Somerset from the west,* 
and Sir Thomas Dymoke from Lincolnshire, and the 
Knight of Lytton, with his hardy retainers, from the 
Peak. Bold Hilyard waited not far from London, with 
a host of mingled yeomen and bravos, reduced, as before, 
to discipline under his own sturdy energies, and the 
military craft of Sir John Coniers. If London would 
but hold out till these forces could unite, Edward’s de- 
struction was still inevitable. 

* Most historians state that Somerset was then in London : but 
Sharon Turner quotes “ Harleian MSS. 38,” to show that he had 
left the metropolis to raise an army from the western countries,” 
and ranks him amongst the generals at the battle of Barnet. 

- . ♦ ♦ ♦ * ♦ ♦ 


2d 


38* 


BOOK TWELFTH. 

THE BATTLE OF BAENET. 


CHAPTER I. 

A King in his City hopes to recorer his Realm — A Woman in her 
Chamber fears to forfeit her own. 

Edward and his army reached St. Alban’s. Great 
commotion — great joy, were in the Sanctuary of West- 
minster I The Jerusalem Chamber, therein, was made 
the high council-hall of the friends of York. Great com- 
motion, great terror, were in the city of London— timid 
Master Stokton had been elected mayor; horribly fright- 
ened either to side with an Edward or a Henry, timid 
Master Stokton feigned. or fell ill. Sir Thomas Cook, a 
wealthy and influential citizen, and a member of the 
House of Commons, had been appointed deputy in his 
stead. Sir Thomas Cook took fright also, and ran away.* 
The power of the city thus fell into the hands of TJrse- 
wike, the Recorder, a zealous Yorkist. Great commo- 
tion, great scorn, were in the breasts of the populace, as 


* Fabyan. 


( 450 ) 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


451 


the Archbishop of York, hoping thereby to rekindle their 
loyalty, placed King Henry on horseback, and paraded 
him through the streets, from Chepeside to Walbrook, 
from Walbrook to St. Paul’s ; for the news of Edward’s 
arrival, and the sudden agitation and excitement it pro- 
duced on his enfeebled frame, had brought upon the poor 
king one of the epileptic attacks to which he had been 
subject from childhood, and which had been the cause of 
his frequent imbecility ; and, just recovered from such a fit 
— his eyes vacant — his face haggard — his head drooping, 
the spectacle of such an antagonist to the vigorous Ed- 
ward, moved only pity in the few, and ridicule in the 
many. Two thousand Yorkist gentlemen were in the 
various sanctuaries ; aided and headed by the Earl of 
Essex, they came forth armed and clamorous, scouring 
the streets, and shouting, “King Edward I” with impunity. 
Edward’s popularity in London was heightened amongst 
the merchants by prudent reminiscences of the vast debts 
he had incurred, which his victory only could ever enable 
him to repay to his good citizens.* The women, always, 
in such a movement, active partisans, and useful, deserted 
their hearths to canvass all strong arms and stout hearts 
for the handsome woman-lover, f The Yorkist Arch- 
bishop of Canterbury did his best with the ecclesiastics, 

the Yorkist Recorder his best with the flat-caps. 

Alwyn, true to his anti-feudal principles, animated all the 
young freemen to support the merchant king— the favorer 


* Comines. 


t Ibid. 


452 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

of commerce — the man of his age / The city authorities 
began to yield to their own and the general metropolitan 
predilections. But still the Archbishop of York had six 
thousand soldiers at his disposal, and London could be 
yet saved to Warwick, if the prelate acted with energy, 
and zeal, and good faith. That such was his first inten- 
tion is clear, from his appeal to the public loyalty in 
King Henry’s procession ; but when he perceived how 
little effect that pageant had produced — when, on re- 
entering the Bishop of London’s palace, he saw before 
him the guileless, helpless puppet of contending factions, 
gasping for breath, scarcely able to articulate, the heart- 
less prelate turned away, with a muttered ejaculation of 
contempt : — 

“ Clarence had not deserted,” said he to himself, “ un- 
less he saw greater profit with King Edward!” And 
then he began to commune with himself, and to commune 
with his brother-prelate of Canterbury ; and in the 
midst of all this commune arrived Catesby, charged with 
messages to the archbishop from Edward — messages full 
of promise and affection on the one hand-— of menace 
and revenge upon the other. Brief, — Warwick’s cup of 
bitterness had not yet been filled ; that night the arch- 
bishop and the mayor of London met, and the Tower 
was surrendered to Edward’s friends ; — the next day Ed- 
ward and his army entered, amidst the shouts of the 
populace — rode to St. Paul’s, where the archbishop* met 

* Sharon Turner. Tt is a comfort to think that this archbishop 
was, two years afterwards, first robbed, and then imprisoned, by 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 45^ 

him, leading Henry by the hand, again a captive ; thence 
Edward proceeded to Westminster Abbey, and fresh from 
his atrocious perjury at York, offered thanksgivings for 
its success. The Sanctuary yielded up its royal fugitives, 
and, in joy and in pomp, Edward led his wife and her 
new-born babe, with Jacquetta and his elder children, to 
Baynard’s Castle. 

The next morning (the third day), true to his promise, 
Warwick marched towards London with the mighty 
armament he had now collected. Treason had done its 
work — the metropolis was surrendered, and King Henry 
in the Tower. 

“These things considered,” says the chronicler, “the 
earl saw that all calculations of necessity were brought 
to this end, — that they must now be committed to the 
hazard and chance of one battle.”* He halted, there- 
fore, at St. Alban’s, to rest his troops ; and marching 
thence towards Barnet, pitched his tents on the upland 
ground, then called the Heath or Chase of Gladsraoor, 
and waited the coming foe. 

Nor did Edward linger long from that stern meeting. 
Entering London on the 11th of April, he prepared to 
quit it on the 13th. Besides the force he had brought 
with him, he had now recruits in his partisans from the 
Sanctuaries and other hiding-places in the metropolis, 
while London furnished him, from her high-spirited 

Edward IV. ; nor did he recover his liberty till a few weeks before 
his death, in 1476 (five years subsequently to the battle of Barnet). 

* Hall. 


454 


THE LAST OF THE BAKONS. 


youths a, gallant troop of bow and billrnen, whom Alwyn 
had enlisted, and to whom Edward willingly appointed, 
as captain, Alwyn himself; — who had atoned for his sub- 
mission to Henry’s restoration by such signal activity on 
behalf of the young king, whom he associated with the 
interests of his class, and the weal of the great commer- 
cial city, which some years afterwards rewarded his 
affection by electing him to her chief magistracy.* 

It was on that very day, the 13th of April, some hours 
before the departure of the York army, that Lord Has- 
tings entered the Tower, to give orders relative to the 
removal of the unhappy Henry, whom Edward had re- 
solved to take with him on his march. 

And as he had so ordered, and was about to return, 
Alwyn, emerging from oiie of the interior courts, ap- 
proached him in much agitation, and said thus— “ Pardon 
me, my lord, if in so grave an hour, I recall your atten- 
tion to one you may haply have forgotten.” 

“Ah, the poor maiden ; but you told me, in the hurried 
words that we have already interchanged, that she was 
safe and well.” 

“Safe, my lord— not well Oh, hear me. I depart to 
battle for your cause and your king’s; A gentleman in 
your train has advised me that vou are married to a noble 
dame in the foreign land. If so, this girl whom I have 

* Nicholas Alwyn, the representative of that generation which 
aided the commercial and anti-feudal policy of Edward IV. and 
Richard III., and welcomed its consummation under their Tudor 
successor, rose to be Lord Mayor of London in ♦be fifteenth year 
of the reign of Henry VII. —Fabyan. 


455 


THE LAST OF THE BAEONS. 

loved SO long and truly, may yet forget you — may yet 
be mine. Oh, give me that hope, to make me a braver 
soldier.” 

“But,” said Hastings, embarrassed, and with a changing 
countenance, “but time presses, and I know not where 
the demoiselle ” 

“ She is here,” interrupted Alwyn ; “here, within these 
walls — in yonder court-yard. I have just left her. You, 
whom she loves, forgot her ! J, whom she disdains, re- 
membered. I went to see to her safety — to counsel her 
to rest here for the present, whatever betides : and, at 
every word I said, she broke in upon me but with one 
„arae — that name was thine 1 And when stung, and in 
the impulse of the moment, I exclaimed, — ‘ He deserves 
not this devotion. They tell me, Sibyll, that Lord Has- 
tings has found a wife in exile’ — oh, that look ! that cry ! 
they haunt me still. ‘ Prove it — prove it, Alwyn,’ she 
cried, ‘And — ’ I interrupted, ‘and thou couldst yet, for 
thy father’s sake, be true wife to me ? ” 

“ Her answer, Alwyn ? ” 

“ It was this — ‘ For my father’s sake, only, then, could 
I live on ; and—’ her sobs stopped her speech, till she 
cried again, ‘ I believe it not ! thou hast deceived me. 
Only from his lips will I hear the sentence.’ Go to her, 
manfully and frankly, as becomes you, high lord — go ! 
It is but a single sentence thou hast to say, and thy heart 
will be the lighter, and thine arm the stronger, for those 
honest words.” 

Hastings pulled his cap over his brow, and stood a 


456 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

moment as if in reflection ; he then said, “ Show me the 
way ; thou art right. It is due to her and to thee ; and 
as, by this hour to-morrow, my soul may stand before 
the Judgment-seat, that poor child’s pardon may take 
one sin from the large account.” 


CHAPTER II. 

Sharp is the Kiss of the Falcon’s Beak. 

Hastings stood in the presence of the girl to whom 
he had pledged his truth. They were alone j but in the 
next chamber might be heard the peculiar sound made 
by the mechanism of the Eureka. Happy and lifeless 
mechanism, which moves, and toils, and strives on, to 
change the destiny of millions, but hath neither ear, nor 
eye, nor sense, nor heart, — the avenues of pain to man I 
She had — yes, literally — she had recognized her lover’s 
step upon the stair, she had awakened at once from that 
dull and icy lethargy with which the words of Alwyn 
had chained life and soul. She sprang forward as Hast- 
ings entered — she threw herself, in delirious joy, upon 
his bosom. “ Thou art come— thou art ! It is not true 
— not true. Heaven bless thee I — thou art come ! ” But 
sudden as the movement, was the recoil. Drawing her- 
self back, she gazed steadily on his face, and said — 
“ Lord Hastings, they tell me thy hand is another’s. Is 
it true ? ” 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 45*1 

“ Hear me I ” answered the nobleman. “ When first 
I ” 

“ Oh, God I — oh, God I he answers not — he falters. 
Speak I Is it true ? 

“It is true. I am wedded to another.” 

Sibyll did not fall to the ground, nor faint, nor give 
vent to noisy passion. But the rich color which before 
had been varying and fitful, deserted her^jheek, and left 
it of an ashen whiteness ; the lips, too, grew tightly com- 
pressed, and her small fingers, interlaced, were clasped 
with strained and convulsive energy, so that the quiver- 
ing of the very arms was perceptible. In all else she 
seemed composed, as she said, “ I thank you, my lord, 
for the simple truth — no more is needed. Heaven bless 
you and yours I Farewell I ” 

“ Stay 1 you shall — you must hear me on. Thou 

knowest how dearly in youth I loved Katherine Nevile. 
In manhood the memory of that love haunted me, but 
beneath thy sweet smile, I deemed it, at last, effaced ; I 
left thee to seek the king, and demand his assent to our 
Yijjlon. I speak not of obstacles that then arose , -“—in 
the midst of them I learned Katherine was lone and 

widowed was free. At her own summons, I sought her 

presence, and learned that she had loved me ever — Gloved 
me still. The intoxication of my early dream returned 

reverse and exile followed close — Katherine left her 

state, her fortunes, her native land, and followed the 
banished man, and so memory, and gratitude, and destiny 
concurred, and the mistress of ray youth became my wife. 


458 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

None other could have replaced thy image-*— none other 
have made me forget the faith I pledged thee. The 
thought of thee has still pursued me — will pursue me to 
the last. I dare not say now that I love thee still, but 

yet ” He paused, but rapidly resumed, “Enough, 

enough — dear art thou to me, and honored — dearer, more 
honored than a sister. Thank Heaven, at least, and thine 
own virtue, m^ falsehood leaves thee pure and stainless. 
Thy hand may yet bless a worthier man. If our cause 
triumphs, thy fortunes, thy father’s fate, shall be my 
fondest care. Never-never will my sleep be sweet, and 
my conscience laid to rest, till I hear thee say, as honored 
wife — perchance, as blessed and blessing mother^ — ‘ False 
one, I am happy 1 ’ ” 

A cold smile, at these last words, flitted over the girl’s 
face — the smile of a broken heart — but it vanished, and 
with that strange mixture of sweetness and pride — mild 
and forgiving, yet still spirited and firm — which belonged 
to her character, she nerved herself to the last and sad- 
dest effort to preserve dignity and conceal despair. 
“ Farther words, my lord, are idle — I am rightly punished 
for a proud folly. Let not woman love above her state. 
Think no more of my destiny.” 

“ No, no,” interrupted the remorseful lord, “ thy destiny 
must haunt me till thou hast chosen one with a better 
right to protect thee.” 

At the repetition of that implied desire to transfer her 
also to another — a noble indignation came to mar the 
calm for which she had hitherto not vainly struggled. 


THE LAST OP THE BALRONS. 


469 


“Oh, man!^^ she exclaimed, with passion, “ does thy 
deceit give me the right to deceive another ? !• — I wed ! 
— I — I_vow at the altar — a love dead, dead for ever — 
dead as my own heart I Why dost thou mock me with 
the hollow phrase, ‘Thou art pure and stainless?’ Is 
the virginity of the soul still left ? Do the tears I have 
shed for thee — doth the thrill of my heart when I heard 
thy voice — doth the plighted kiss that burns, burns now 
into my brow, and on my lips — do these, these leave me 
free to carry to a new affection the cinders and ashes of 
a soul thou hast ravaged and deflowered ? Oh, coarse 
and rude belief of men, — that nought is lost, if the mere 
form be pure ! The freshness of the first feelings, the 
bloom of the sinless thought, the sigh, the blush of the 
devotion — never, never felt but one©"! these, these make 
the true dower a maiden should bring to the hearth to 
which she comes as wife. Oh, taunt ! — Oh, insult ! to 
speak to me of happiness — of the altar! Thou never 
knewest, lord, how I really loved thee!” And for the 
first time, a violent gush of tears came to relieve her 
heart. 

Hastings was almost equally overcome. Well ex- 
perienced as he was in those partings, when maids re- 
proach and gallants pray for pardon, but still sigh — 
“ Farewell,” — he had now no words to answer that burst 
of uncontrollable agony, and he felt at once humbled and 
relieved, when Sibyll again, with one of those struggles 
which exhaust years of life, and almost leave us callous 
to all after-trial, pressed back the scalding tears, and 


4(50 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


said, with unnatural sweetness — “ Pardon me, my lord — 
I meant not to reproach — the words escaped me — think 
of them no more. I would fain, at least, part from you 
now as I had once hoped to part from you at the last 
hour of life-^ without one memory of bitterness and anger, 
so that my conscience, whatever its other griefs, might 
say — ‘My lips never belied my heart — my words never 
pained him ! ’ And now then, Lord Hastings, in all 
charity, we part. Farewell, for ever, and for ever I Thou 
hast wedded one who loves thee, doubtless, as tenderly 
as I had done. Ah I cherish that affection ! There are 
times even in thy career when a little love is sweeter than 
much fame. If thou thinkest I have aught to pardon 
thee, now with my whole heart I pray, as while life is 
mine that prayer shall be murmured — ‘Heaven forgive 
this man, as I do I Heaven make his home the home of 
peace, and breathe into those now near and dear to him, 

the love and the faith that I once ’ ” She stopped, 

for the words choked her, and, hiding her face, held Out 
her hand, in sign of charity and of farewell. 

“Ah ! if I dared pray like thee,” murmured Hastings, 
pressing his lips upon that burning hand, “ ho w should I 
weary Heaven to repair, by countless blessings, the wrong 
which I have done thee I And Heaven will— oh, it surely 
will!”— He pressed the hand to his heart, dropped it, 
and was gone. 

In the court-yard he was accosted by Alwyn 

“Thou hast been frank, my lord?” 

“ I have.” 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 461 

“And she bears it, and 

“ See how she forgives, and how I suffer ! ” said Hast- 
ings, turning his face towards his rival ; and Alwyn saw 
that the tears were rolling down his cheeks — “ Question 
me no more.” 

There was a long silence — they quitted the precincts 
of the Tower, and were at the river-side. Hastings 
waving his hand to Alwyn, was about to enter the boat 
which was to bear him to the war-council assembled at 
Baynard’s Castle, when the trader stopped him, and said 
anxiously — 

“ Think you not, for the present, the Tower is the safest 
asylum for Sibyll and her father ? If we fail and War- 
wick returns, they are protected by the earl ; if we triumph, 
thou wilt insure their safety from all foes ? ” 

‘Surely; — in either case, their present home is the 
most secure.” 

The two men then parted ; and not long afterwards, 
Hastings, who led the on-guard, was on his way towards 
Barnet ; with him also went the foot volunteers under 
Alwyn. The army of York was on its march. Glouces- 
ter, to whose vigilance and energy were left the final pre- 
parations, was necessarily the last of the generals to quit 
the city. And suddenly, while his steed was at the gate 
of Baynard’s Castle, he entered, armed cap-d-pie, into 
the chamber where the Duchess of Bedford sat with her 
grandchildren : “Madame,” said he, “I have a grace to 
demand from you, which wijl, methinks, not be displeasing. 
My lieutenants report to me that an alarm has spread 
39* 3m 


462 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

amongst my men — a religions hotroT of some fearful 
bombards and guns which have been devised by a sorcerer 
in Lord Warwick's pay. Your famous Friar Bungey has 
been piously amongst them, promising, however, that the 
mists which now creep over the earth shall last through 
the night and the early morrow ; and if he deceive us not, 
we may post our men so as to elude the hostile artillery. 
But, sith the friar is so noted and influential, and sith 
there is a strong fancy that the winds which have driven 
back Margaret obeyed his charm, the soldiers clamor out 
for him to attend us, and, on the very field itself. Coun- 
teract the spells of the Lancastrian nigromancer. The 
good friar, more accustomed to fight with fiends than 
men, is daunted, and resists. As much may depend on 
his showing us good will, and making our fellows suppose 
we have the best of the witchcraft, I pray you to com- 
mand his attendance, and cheer up his courage. He 
waits without.” 

“A most notable — a most wise advice, beloved Rich- 
ard I ” cried the duchess. “ Friar Bungey is, indeed, a 
potent man. I will win him at once to your will ; ” and 
the duchess hurried from the room. 

The friar’s bodily fears, quieted at last by assurances 
that he should be posted in a place of perfect safety 
during the battle, and his avarice excited by promises of 
the amplest rewards, he consented to accompany the 
troops, upon one stipulation — viz., that the atrocious 

wizard, who had so often batfled his best spells the very 

wizard who had superintended the accursed bombards. 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


463 


and predicted Edward’s previous defeat and flight (toge- 
ther with the diabolical invention, in which all the malice 
and strength of his sorcery were centred), might, accord- 
ing to Jacquetta’s former promise, be delivered forthwith 
to his mercy, and accompany him to the very spot where 
he was to dispel and counteract the Lancastrian nigro- 
mancer’s enchantments. The duchess, too glad to pur- 
chase the friar’s acquiescence on such cheap terms, and 
to whose superstitious horror for Adam’s lore in the 
black art, was now added a purely political motive for 
desiring him to be made away with — inasmuch as in the 
Sanctuary she had, at last, extorted from Elizabeth the 
dark secret which might make him a very dangerous wit- 
ness against the interests and honor of Edward — readily 
and joyfully consented to this proposition. 

A strong guard was at once despatched to the Tower 
with the friar himself, followed by a covered wagon, which 
was to serve for conveyance to Bungey and his victim. 

In the meanwhile, Sibyll, after remaining for some time 
in the chamber which Hastings had abandoned to her 
solitary woe, had passed to the room in which her father 
held mute commune wdth his Eureka. 

The machine was now thoroughly completed; — im- 
proved and perfected, to the utmost art the inventor ever 
cculd attain. Thinking that the prejudice against it 
might have arisen from its uncouth appearance, the poor 
philosopher had sought now to give it a gracious and 
imposing appearance. He had painted and gilt it with 
his own hands — it looked bright and gaudy in its gay 


464 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

hues ; its outward form was worthy of the precious and 
propitious jewel which lay hidden in its centre. 

“ See, child — see 1” said Adam ; “is it not beautiful 
and comely ? ’’ 

“ My dear father, yes ! answered the poor girl, as 
still she sought to smile ; then, after a short silence, she 
continued — “ Father, of late, methinks, I have too much 
forgotten thee; pardon me, if so. Henceforth, I have 
no care in life but thee — henceforth let me ever, when 
thou toilest, come and sit by thy side. I would not be 
alone ! — I dare not / Father — father I God shield thy 
harmless life I I have nothing to love under heaven but 
thee I 

The good man turned wistfully, and raised, with tre- 
mulous hands, the sad face that had pressed itself on his 
bosom. Gazing thereon mournfully, he said — “Some 
new grief hath chanced to thee, my child. Methought 
I heard another voice besides thine in yonder room. Ah I 
has Lord Hastings ” 

“Father, spare me! — thou wert too right — thou didst 
judge too wisely — Lord Hastings is wedded to another! 
But see, I can smile still — I am calm. My heart will 
not break so long as it hath thee to love and pray for ! ” 

She wound her arras round him as she spoke, and he 
roused himself from his world out of earth again. Though 
he could bring no comfort, there was something, at least, 
to the forlorn one, in his words of love — in his tears of 
pity. 

They sat down together, side by side, as the evening 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


465 


darkened ; the Eureka forgotten in the hour of its per- 
fection ! They noted not the torches which flashed 
below, reddened at intervals the walls of their chamber, 
and gave a glow to the gay gilding and bright hues of 
tlie gaudy model. Yet those torches flickered round the 
litter that was to convey Henry the Peaceful to the 
battle-field, which was to decide the dynasty of his realm I 
The torches vanished, and forth from the dark fortress 
went the captive king. 

Night succeeded to eve, when again the red glare shot 
upward on the Eureka, playing with fantastic smile on 
its quaint aspect — steps and voices, and the clatter of 
arms, sounded in the yard, on the stairs, in the adjoining 
chamber— -and suddenly the door was flung open, and, 
followed by some half-score soldiers, strode in the terrible 
friar. 

“Aha, Master Adam I who is the greater nigromancer 
now? Seize him! — Away! And help you, Master 
Sergeant, to bear this piece of the foul fiend’s cunning 
devising. Ho, ho ! see you how it is tricked out and 
furbished up — all for the battle, I warrant ye!” 

The soldiers had already seized upon Adam, who, 
stupefied by astonishment rather than fear, uttered no 
sound, and attempted no struggle. But it was in vain 
they sought to tear from him SibylPs clinging and pro- 
tecting arms. A supernatural strength, inspired by a 
kind of superstition that no harm could chance to him 
while she was by, animated her slight form ; and fierce 
though the soldiers were, they shrunk from actual and 
2 E 


466 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

brutal violence to one thus young and fair. Those small 
hands clung so firmly, that it seemed that nothing but 
the edge of the sword could sever the child’s clasp from 
the falher’s neck. 

“ Harm him not — harm him at your peril, friar! ” she 
cried, with flashing eyes. “ Tear him from me, and if 
King Edward win the day. Lord Hastings shall have thy 
life; if Lord Warwick, thy days are numbered, too. 
Beware, and avaunt!” 

The friar was startled. He had forgotten Lord Hast- 
ings in the zest of his revenge. He feared that, if Sibyll 
were left behind, the tale she might tell would indeed 
bring on him a powerful foe in the daughter’s lover — 
on the other hand, should Lord Warwick get the better, 
what vengeance would await her appeal to the great 
protector of her father ! He resolved, therefore, on the 
instant, to take Sibyll as well as her father ; and if the 
fortune of the day allowed him to rid himself of Warner, 
a good occasion might equally occur to dispose for ever 
of the testimony of Sibyll. He had already formed a 
cunning calculation in desiring Warner’s company; for 
while, should Edward triumph, the sacrifice of the hated 
Warner was resolved upon, yet, should the earl get the 
better, he could make a merit to Warner that he (the 
friar) had not only spared, but saved, his life, in making 
him his companion. It was in harmony with this double 
policy that the friar mildly answered to Sibyll — 

“ Tush, my daughter ! Perhaps if your father be true 
to King Edward, and aid my skill instead of obstructing 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 467 

it, ho may be none the worse for the journey he must 
take ; and if thou likest to go with him, there^s room in 
the vehicle, and the more the merrier. Harm them not, 
soldiers — no doubt they will follow quietly.” 

As he said this, the men, after first crossing themselves, 
bad already hoisted up the Eureka; and when Adam 
saw it borne from the room, he instinctively followed the 
bearers. Sibyll, relieved by the thought that, for weal 
or for woe, she should, at least, share her father’s fate, 
and scarce foreboding much positive danger from the 
party which contained Hastings and Alwyn, attempted 
no further remonstrance. 

The Eureka was placed in the enormous vehicle — it 
served as a barrier between the friar and his prisoners. 

The friar, as soon as the wagon was in motion, ad- 
dressed. himself civilly enough to his fellow-travellers, 
and assured them there was nothing to fear, unless Adam 
thought fit to disturb his incantations. The captives 
answered not his address, but nestled close to each other, 
interchanging, at intervals, words of comfort, and recoil- 
ing as far as possible from the ex-tregetour, who, having 
taken with him a more congenial companion, in the shape 
of a great leathern bottle, finally sunk into the silent and 
complacent doze which usually rewards the libations to 
the Bromian god. 

The vehicle, with many other baggage-wagons in the 
rear of the army, in that memorable night-march, moved 
mournfully on ; the night continued wrapped in fog and 
mist, agreeably to the weather-wise predictions of the 


468 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


friar ; the rumbling groan of the vehicle, the tramp of 
the soldiers, the dull rattle of their arms, with now' and 
then the neigh of some knight’s steed in the distance, 
were the only sounds that broke the silence, till once, as 
they neared their destination, Sibyll started from her 
father’s bosom, and shudderingly thought she recognized 
the hoarse chant and the tinkling bells of the ominous 
tymbesteres. 


CHAPTER III. 

A Pause. 

In the profound darkness of the night, and the thick 
fog, Edward had stationed his men at a venture upon 
the heath at Gladsmore,* and hastily environed the camp 
with palisades and trenches. He had intended to have 
rested immediately in front of the foe, but, in the dark- 
ness, mistook the extent of the hostile line, and his men 
were ranged only opposite to the left side of the earl’s 
force (towards Hadley) leaving the right unopposed. 
Most fortunate for Edw'ard was this mistake ; for War- 
wick’s artillery, and the new and deadly bombards he 
had constructed, were placed in the right of the earl’s 
army ; and the provident earl, naturally supposing Ed- 
w'ard’s left was there opposed to him, ordered his gunners 

* Edward “ had the greater number of men.’' — 


Hall, p. 296. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 469 

to cannonade all night. Edward, “ as the flashes of the 
guns illumined by fits the gloom of midnight, saw the 
advantage of his unintentional error ; and to prevent 
Warwick from discovering it, reiterated his orders for the 
most profound silence.”* Thus even his very blunders 
favored Edward more than the wisest precautions had 
served his fated foe. 

Raw, cold, and dismal, dawned the morning of the 
fourteenth of April, the Easter Sabbath. In the fortunes 
of that day were involved those of all the persons who 
hitherto, in the course of this narrative, may have seemed 
to move in separate orbits from the fiery star of Warwick. 
Now, in this crowning hour, the vast and gigantic destiny 
of the great earl comprehended all upon which its dark- 
ness or its light had fallen : not only the luxurious Ed- 
ward, the perjured Clarence, the haughty Margaret, her 
gallant son, the gentle Anne, the remorseful Isabel, the 
dark guile of Gloucester, the rising fortunes of the gifted 
Hastings, — but on the hazard of that die rested the 
hopes of Hilyard, and the interests of the trader Alwyn, 
and the permanence of that frank, chivalric, hardy, still 
half Norman race, of which Nicholas Alwyn and his 
Saxon class were the rival antagonistic principle, and 
Marmaduke Nevile the ordinary type. Dragged in- 
exorably into the whirlpool of that mighty fate, were 
even the very lives of the simple Scholar — of his obscure 
and devoted child. Here, into this gory ocean, all 


II.--40 


* Sharon Turner. 


i70 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

scattered rivulets and streams had hastened to merge at 
last. 

But grander and more awful than all individual inter- 
ests were those assigned to the fortunes of this battle, so 
memorable in the English annals; — the ruin or triumph 
of a dynasty ; — the fall of that warlike baronage, of 
which Richard Nevile was the personation — the crown- 
ing flower — the greatest representative and the last — 
associated with memories of turbulence and excess it is 
true, but with the proudest and grandest achievements in 
our early history — with all such liberty as had been yet 
achieved since the Norman Conquest — with all such 
glory as had made the island famous, — here with Runny- 
mede, and there with Cressy ! — the rise of a crafty, plot- 
ting, imperious Despotism, based upon the growing sym- 
pathy of craftsmen and traders, and ripening on the one 
hand to the Tudor tyranny, the Republican reaction 
under the Stuarts, the slavery, and the civil war — but, 
on the other hand, to the concentration of all the vigor 
and life of genius into a single and strong government, 
the graces, the arts, the letters of a polished court, the 
freedom, the energy, the resources of a commercial popu- 
lation destined to rise above the tyranny at which it had 
first connived, and give to the emancipated Saxon the 
markets of the world. Upon the victory of that day, all 
these contending interests — this vast alternative in the 
future — swayed and trembled. Out, then, upon that 
vulgar cravirig of those who comprehend neither the vast 
truths of life, nor the grandeur of ideal art, and who ask 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


471 


from poet or narrator the poor and petty morality of 
Poetical Justice ” — a justice existing not in our work- 
day world — a justice existing not in the sombre page of 
history — a justice existing not in the loftier conceptions 
of men whose genius has grappled with the enigmas 
which art and poetry only can foreshadow and divine : — 
unknown to us in the street and the market — unknown 
to us on the scaffold of the patriot, or amidst the flames 
of the martyr — unknown to us in the Lear and the 
Hamlet — in the Agamemnon and the Prometheus. 
Millions upon millions, ages upon ages, are entered but 
as items in the vast account in which the recording angel 
sums up the unerring justice of God to man. 

Raw, cold, and dismal, dawned the morning of the 
fourteenth of April. And on that very day Margaret 
and her son, and the wife and daughter of Lord Warwick, 
landed, at last, on the shores of England.* Come they 
for joy, or for woe — for victory, or despair ? The issue 
of this day’s fight on the Heath of Gladsmoor will decide. 
Prank thy halls, 0 Westminster, for the triumph of the 
Lancastrian king — or open thou, 0 Grave, to receive the 
saint-like Henry and his noble son. The king-maker 
goes before ye, saint-like father and noble son, to pre- 
pare your thrones amongst the living, or your mansions 
amongst the dead I 


* Margaret landed at Weymouth — Lady Warwick, at Portsmouth. 


472 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


CHAPTER IV. 

The Battle. 

Raw, cold, and dismal, dawned the morning of th‘ 
fourteenth of April. The heavy mist still covered both 
armies, but their hum and stir was already heard through 
the gloaming, — the neighing of steeds, and the clangor 
of mail. Occasionally a movement of either force, made 
dim from looming gigantic through the vapor, indistinctly 
visible to the antagonist array ; and there was something 
ghastly and unearthlike in these ominous shapes, suddenly 
seen, and suddenly vanishing, amidst the sullen atmo- 
sphere. By this time, Warwick had discovered the mis- 
take of his gunners ; for, to the right of the earl, the 
silence of the Yorkists was still unbroken, while abruptly 
from the thick gloom to the left broke the hoarse mutter 
and low growl of the awakening war. Not a moment 
was lost by the earl in repairing the error of the night : 
his artillery wheeled rapidly from the right wing, and, 
sudden as a storm of lightning, the fire from the cannon 
flashed through the dun and heavy vapor ; and not far 
from the very spot where Hastings was marshalling the 
wing intrusted to his command, made a deep chasm in 
the serried ranks. Death had begun his feast! 

At that moment, however, from the centre of the 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


4t3 


Yorkist army, arose, scarcely drowned by the explosion, 
that deep-toned shout of enthusiasm, which he who has 
once heard it, coming, as it were, from the one heart of 
an armed multitude, will ever recall as the most kindling 
and glorious sound which ever quickened the pulse and 
thrilled the blood, — for along that part of the army now 
rode King Edward. His mail was polished as a mirror, 
but otherwise unadorned, resembling that which now in- 
vests his effigies at the Tower,* and the housings of his 
steed were spangled with silver suns, for the silver sun 
was the cognizance on all his banners. His head was 
bare, and through the hazy atmosphere the gold of his 
rich locks seemed literally to shine. Followed by his 
body squire, with his helm and lance, and the lords in his 
immediate staff, his truncheon in his hand, he passed 
slowly along the steady line, till, halting where he deemed 
his voice could be farthest heard, he reined in, and lifting 
his hand, the shout of the soldiery was hushed, — though 
still, while he spoke, from Warwick’s archers came the 
arrowy shower, and still the gloom was pierced and the 
hush interrupted by the flash and the roar of the bombards. 

“ Englishmen and friends,” said the martial chief, “ to 
bold deeds go but few words. Before you is the foe I 
From Ravenspur to London I have marched — treason 
flying from my sword, loyalty gathering to my standard. 

* The suit of armor, however, which the visitor to the Royal 
Armory is expected to believe King Edward could have worn, is in- 
finitely too small for such credulity. Edward’s height was six feet 
two inches. 

40 * 


4r4 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

With but two thousand men, on the fourteenth of March, 

1 entered England — on the fourteenth of April, fifty 
thousand is my muster-roll. Who shall say, then, that I 
am not king, when one month mans a monarch’s army 
from his subjects’ love ? And well know ye, now, that 
my cause is yours and England’s 1 Those against us are 
men who would rule in despite of law — barons whom I 
gorged with favors, and who would reduce this fair realm 
of King, Lords, and Commons, to be the appanage and 
property of one man’s measureless ambition — the park, 
forsooth, the homestead to Lord Warwick’s private 
house I Ye gentlemen and knights of England, let them 
and their rabble prosper, and your properties will be 
despoiled — your lives insecure — all law struck dead. 
What differs Richard of Warwick from Jack Cade, save 
that if his name is nobler, so is his treason greater ? 
Commoners and soldiers of England — freemen, however 
humble — what do these rebel lords (who would rule in 
the name of Lancaster) desire ? To reduce you to vil- 
leins and to bondsmen, as your forefathers were to them. 
Ye owe freedom from the barons to the just laws of my 
sires, your kings. Gentlemen and knights, commoners 
and soldiers, Edward lY. upon his throne will not profit 
by a victory more than you. This is no war of dainty 
chivalry — it is a war of true men against false. No 
quarter I Spare not either knight or hilding. Warwick, 
forsooth, will not smite the commons. Truly not — the 

rabble are his friends. I say to you ” and Edward, 

pausing in the excitement and sanguinary fury of his 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 




tiger nature — the soldiers heated like himself to the thirst 
of blood, saw his eyes sparkle, and his teeth gnash, as he 
added in a deeper and lower, but not less audible voice, 
“ I say to you, slay all ! * What heel spares the viper’s 
brood ? ” 

“We will — we will!” was the horrid answer, which 
eame hissing and muttered forth from morion and cap of 
steel. 

“ Hark I to their oombards I ” resumed Edward. “ The 
enemy would fight from afar, for they excel us in their 
archers and gunners. Upon them, then — hand to hand, 
and man to man I Advance banners — sound trumpets! 
Sir Oliver, my basinet ! Soldiers, if ray standard falls, 
look for the plume upon your king’s helmet ! Charge ! ” 

Then, with a shout wilder and louder than before, on 
through the hail of the arrows — on through the glare of 
the bombards — rather with a rush than in a march, ad- 
vanced Edward’s centre against the array of Somerset. 
But from a part of the encampment where the circumval- 
lation seemed strongest, a small body of men moved not 
with the general body. 

To the left of the clmrch-yard of Hadley, at this day, 
the visitor may notice a low wall ; on the other side of 
that wall is a garden, then but a rude eminence on Glads- 
moor Heath. On that spot a troop in complete armor, 
upon destriers pawing impatiently, surrounded a man 
upon a sorry palfrey, and in a gown of blue — the color 
of royalty and of servitude, — that man was Henry the 


* Hall. 


4*76 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

Sixth. In the same space stood Friar Bungey, his foot 
on the Eureka, muttering incantations, that the mists he 
had foretold,* and which had protected the Yorkists from 
the midnight guns, might yet last, to the confusion of the 
foe. And near him, under a gaunt, leafless tree, a rope 
round his neck, was Adam Warner — Sibyll, still faithful 
to his side, nor shuddering at the arrows and the guns— 
her whole fear concentrated upon the sole life for which 
her own was prized. Upon this eminence, then, these 
lookers-on stood aloof. And the meek ears of Henry 
heard through the fog the inexplicable sullen, jarring 
clash, — steel had met steel. 

“ Holy Father ! ” exclaimed the kingly saint, “ and this 
is the Easter Sabbath, thy most solemn day of peace ! ” 

“ Be silent,’’ thundered the friar, “ thou disturbest my 
spells. Barabbarara — Santhinoa — Foggibus increscebo 
— confusio inimicis — Garabbora, vapor el mistesF' 

We must now rapidly survey the dispositions of the 
army under Warwick. In the right wing, the command 
was intrusted to the Earl of Oxford and the Marquis of 
Montagu. The former, who led the cavalry of that 
division, was stationed in the van ; the latter, according 
to his usual habit — surrounded by a strong body-guard 
of knights, and a prodigious number of squires as aides- 

* Lest the reader should suppose that the importance of Friar 
Bungey on this bloody day has been exaggerated by the narrator, 
we must cite the testimony of sober Alderman Fabyan : — “ Of the 
mists and other impediments which fell upon the lords’ party, by 
reason of the incantations wrought by Friar Bungey, as the fame 
went, me list not to write.” 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 4tT 

de-camp — remained at the rear, and directed thence, by 
his orders, the general movement! In this wing the 
greater number were Lancastrian, jealous of Warwick, 
and only consenting to the generalship of Montagu, be- 
cause shared by their favorite hero, Oxford. In the mid- 
space lay the chief strength of the bowmen, with a goodly 
number of pikes and bills, under the Duke of Somerset ; 
and this division also was principally Lancastrian, and 
shared the jealousy of Oxford^s soldiery. The left wing, 
composed for the most of Warwick’s yeomanry and re- 
tainers, was commanded by the Duke of Exeter, conjointly 
with the earl himself. Both armies kept a considerable 
body in reserve, and Warwick, besides this resource, had 
selected from his own retainers a band of picked archers, 
whom he had skilfully placed in the outskirts of a wood 
that then stretched from Wrotham Park to the column 
that now commemorates the battle of Barnet, on the high 
northern road. He had guarded these last-mentioned 
archers (where exposed in front to Edward’s horsemen) 
by strong tall barricades, leaving only such an opening 
as would allow one horseman at a time to pass, and de- 
fending by a formidable line of pikes this narrow opening 
left for communication, and to admit to a place of refuge 
in case of need. These dispositions made, and ere yet 
Edward had advanced on Somerset, the earl rode to the 
front of the wing under his special command, and, agree- 
ably to the custom of the time, observed by his royal foe, 
harangued the troops. Here were placed those who 
loved him as a father, and venerated him as something 
3n 


418 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

superior to mortal man — here the retainers, who had 
grown up with him from childhood — who had followed 
him to his first fields of war — who had lived under the 
shelter of his many castles, and fed in that rude equality 
of a more primaeval age, which he loved still to maintain, 
at his lavish board. And now Lord Warwick’s coal- 
black steed halted, motionless in the van. His squire 
behind bore his helmet, overshadowed by the eagle of 
Monthermer, the outstretched wings of which spread 
wide into sable plumes : and as the earl’s noble face 
turned full and calm upon the bristling lines, there arose, 
not the vulgar uproar that greeted the aspect of the 
young Edward. By one of those strange sympathies 
which pass through multitudes, and seize them with a 
common feeling, the whole body of those adoring vassals 
became suddenly aware of the change which a year had 
made in the face of their chief and father. They saw the 
grey flakes in his Jove-like curls — the furrows in that 
lofty brow— the hollows in that bronzed and manly visage, 
which had seemed to their rude admiration to wear the 
stamp of the twofold Divinity — Beneficence and Valor. 
A thrill of tenderness and awe shot through the veins of 
every one — tears of devotion rushed into many a hardy 
eye. No — there, was not the ruthless captain addressing 
his hireling butchers ; it was the chief and father rallying 
gratitude, and love, and reverence, to the crisis of his 
stormy fate. 

“My friends, my followers, and my children,” said the 
earl, “ the field we have entered is one from which there 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


4t9 


IS BO retreat ; here must your leader conquer, or here die. 
It is not a parchment pedigree — it is not a name, derived 
from the ashes of dead men, that make the only charter 
of a king. We Englishmen were but slaves, if, in giving 
crown and sceptre to a mortal like ourselves, we asked 
not in return the kingly virtues. Beset, of old, by evil 
counsellors, the reign of Henry YI. was obscured, and 
the weal of the realm endangered. Mine own wrongs 
seemed to me great, but the disasters of my country not 
less. I deemed that in the race of York, England would 
know a wiser and happier rule. What was, in this, mine 
error, ye partly know. A prince dissolved in luxurious 
vices — a nobility degraded by minions and blood-suckers 

a people plundered by purveyors, and a land disturbed 

by brawl and riot. But ye know not all : God makes 
man’s hearth man’s altar — our hearths were polluted — 
our wives and daughters were viewed as harlots — and 
lechery ruled the realm. A king’s word should be fast 
as the pillars of the world. What man ever trusted Ed- 
ward and was not deceived ? Even now the unknightly 
liar stands in arms with the weight of perjury on his soul. 
In his father’s town of York, ye know that he took, three 
short weeks since, solemn oath of fealty to King Henry. 
And now King Henry is his captive, and King Henry’s 
holy crown upon his traitor’s head — ‘ traitors ’ calls he 
IJs ? What name, then, rank enough for him ! Edward 
■ gave the promise of a brave man, and I served him. He 
proved a base, a false, a licentious, and a cruel king, and 
I forsook him ; may all free hearts in all free lands so 


:r80 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

serve kings when they become tyrants ! Ye fight against 
a cruel and a torcious usurper, whose bold hand cannot 
sanctify a black heart — ye fight not only for King Henry, 
the meek and godly — ye fight not for him alone, but for 
his young and princely son, the grandchild of Henry of 
Agincourt, who, old men tell me, has that hero’s face, 
and who, I know, has that hero’s frank and royal and 
noble soul— ye fight for the freedom of your land, for the 
honor of your women, for what is better than any king’s 
cause — for justice and mercy — for truth and manhood’s 
virtues against corruption in the laws, slaughter by the 
scaffold, falsehood in a ruler’s lips, and shameless harlotry 
in the councils of ruthless power. The order I have ever 
given in war, I give now ; — we war against the leaders 
of evil, not against the hapless tools — we war against 
our oppressors, not against our misguided brethren. 
Strike down every plumed crest, but when the strife is 
over, spare every common man I Hark I while I speak, 
I hear the march of your foe I Up standards 1 — blow 
trumpets ! And now, as I brace my basinet, may God 
grant us all a glorious victory, or a glorious grave. On, 
my merry men ! show these London loons the stout hearts 
of Warwickshire and Yorkshire. On, my merry men 1 
A Warwick 1 a Warwick I ” 

As he ended, he swung lightly over his head the terrible 
battle-axe which had smitten down, as the grass before 
the reaper, the chivalry of many a field ; and ere the lust 
blast of tne trumpet died, the troops of Warwick and of 
Gloucester met, and mingled hand to hand. 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


481 


Although the earl had, on discovering the position of 
the enemy, moved some of his artillery from his right 
wing, yet there still lay the great number and strength 
of his force. And there, therefore, Montagu, rolling 
troop on troop to the aid of Oxford, pressed so over- 
poweringly upon the soldiers under Hastings, that the 
battle very soon wore a most unfavorable aspect for the 
Yorkists. It seemed, indeed, that the success which had 
u.’ways hitherto attended the military movements of Mon- 
tagu, was destined for a crowning triumph. Stationed, 
as we have said, in the rear,, with his light-armed squires, 
upon fleet steeds, around him, he moved the springs of 
the battle with the calm sagacity which at that moment 
no chief in either army possessed. Hastings was tho- 
roughly outflanked, and though his men fought with 
great valor, they could not resist the weight of superior 
numbers. 

In the midst of the carnage in the centre, Edward 
reined in his steed, as he heard the cry of victory in the 
gale — 

“By heaven I” he exclaimed, “our men at the left are 
c-avens — they fly I they fly ! — Ride to Lord Hastings, 
Sir Humphrey Bourchier, bid him deflle hither what men 
are left him ; and now, ere our fellows are well aware 
what hath chanced yonder, charge we, knights and gen- 
tlemen, on, on ! — break Somerset's line; on, on, to the 
heart of the rebel earl ! ” 

Then, vizor closed, lance in rest, Edward and his cavalry 
dashed through the archers and billmen of Somerset; 

II. —41 2f 


482 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

clad in complete mail, impervious to the weapons of the 
infantry, they slaughtered as they rode, and their way 
was marked by corpses and streams of blood. Fiercest 
and fellest of all, was Edward himself; when his lance 
shivered, and he drew his knotty mace from its sling by 
his saddle-bow, woe to all who attempted to stop his 
path. Yain alike steel helmet or leathern cap, jerkin or 
coat of mail In vain Somerset threw himself into the 
melee The instant Edward and his cavalry had made a 
path through the lines for his foot-soldiery, the fortunes 
of the day were half retrieved. It was no rapid passage, 
pierced and reclosed, that he desired to effect ; it was 
the wedge in the oak of war. There, rooted in the very 
midst of Somerset's troops, doubling on each side, pass- 
ing on but to return again, where helm could be crashed 
and man overthrown, the mighty strength of Edward 
widened the breach more and more, till faster and faster 
poured in his bands, and the centre of Warwick’s army 
seemed to reel and whirl round the broadening gap 
through its ranks, — as the waves round some chasm in a 
maelstrom. 

But in the interval, the hard-pressed troops commanded 
by Hastings were scattered and dispersed ; driven from 
the field, they fled in numbers through the town of Bar- 
net ; many halted not till they reached London, where 
they spread the news of the earPs victorv and Edward’s 
ruin.* 


* Sharon Turner. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 483 

Through the mist, Friar Bungey discerned the fugitive 
Yorkists under Hastings, and heard their cries of despair : 
through the mist, Sibyll saw, close beneath the intrench- 
ments which protected the space on which they stood, an 
armed horseman with the well-known crest of Hastings 
on his helmet, and, with lifted vizor, calling his men to 
the return, in the loud voice of rage and scorn. And 
then, she herself sprang forwards, and forgetting his past 
cruelty in his present danger, cried his name — weak 
cry, lost in the roar of war ! But the friar, now fearing 
he had taken the wrong side, began to turn from his spells, 
to address the most abject apologies to Adam, to assure 
him that he would have been slaughtered at the Tower, 
but for the friar’s interruption ; and that the rope round 
his neck was but an insignificant ceremony due to the 
prejudices of the soldiers. *‘Alas, Great Man,’ he con- 
cluded, “ I see still that thou art mightier than I am ; 
thy charms, though silent, are more potent than mine, 
though my lungs crack beneath them ! Confusio Inimicis 
Taralorolu — I mean no harm to the earl, — Garrabora, 
mistes et nubes; — Lord, what will become of me ! ” 
Meanwhile, Hastings, with a small body of horse, who 
being composed of knights and squires, specially singled 
out for the sword, fought with the pride of disdainful 
gentlemen, and the fury of desperate soldiers— finding it 
impossible to lure back the fugitives, hewed their own 
way through Oxford’s ranks, to the centre, where they 
brought fresh aid to the terrible arm of Edward. 


484 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


CHAPTER Y. 

The Battle. 

The mist still continued so thick that Montagu was 
unable to discern the general prospects of the field. But, 
calm and resolute in his post, amidst the arrows which 
whirled round him, and often struck, blunted, against his 
Milan mail, the marquis received the reports of his aides- 
de-camp (may that modern word be pardoned ?) as one 
after one they emerged through the fog to his side. 

“Well,” he said, as one of these messengers now 
spurred to the spot, “ we have beaten olf Hastings and 
his hirelings; but I see not ‘the Silver Star- of Lord 
Oxford’s banner.”* 

“ Lord Oxford, my lord, has followed the enemy he 
routed to the farthest verge of the heath.” 

“ Saints help us I Is Oxford thus headstrong ? He 
will ruin all if he be decoyed from the field ! Ride back, 
sir! Yet — hold!” — as another of the aides-de-camp 
appeared. “ What news from Lord Warwick’s wing ? ” 

“Sore beset, bold marquis. Gloucester’s line seems 
countless ; it already outflanks the earl. The duke him- 

* The Silver Star of the De Veres had its origin in a tradition 
that one of their ancestors, when fighting in the Holy Land, saw a 
falling star descend upon his shield. Fatal to men, nobler even 
than the De Veres, was that silver falling star. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 485 

self seems inspired by hell I Twice has bis slight arm 
braved even the earPs battle-axe, which spared the boy 
but smote to the dust his comrades ! ” 

“Well, and what of the centre, sir?” as a third form 
now arrived. “ There, rages Edward in person. He hath 
pierced into the midst. But Somerset still holds on gal- 
lantly I ” 

Montagu turned to the first aide-de-camp. 

“ Ride, sir I Quick ! This to Oxford — No pursuit I 
Bid him haste, with all his men, to the left wing, and 
smite Gloucester in the rear. Ride, ride — for life and 
victory I If he come but in time, the day is ours ! 

The aide-de-camp darted oif, and the mist swallowed 
up horse and horseman. 

“ Sound trumpets to the return !” said the marquis; — 
then, after a moment’s musing — “Though Oxford hath 
drawn off our main force of cavalry, we have still some 
stout lances left ; and Warwick must be strengthened. 
On to the earl ! Laissez aller ! A Montagu I a Mon- 
tagu I ” And lance in rest, the marquis and the knights 
immediately around him, and hitherto not personally en- 
gaged, descended the hillock at a hand gallop, and were 
met by a troop outnumbering their own, and commanded 
by the Lords D’Eyncourt and Say. 

At this time, Warwick was indeed in the same danger 
that had routed the troops of Hastings ; for, by a similar 
position, the strength of the hostile numbers being arrayed 


41 * 


Fabyan. 


486 thjl last of the barons. 

with Gloucester, the duke's troops had almost entirely 
surrounded him.* And Gloucester himself wondrously 
approved the trust that had consigned to his stripling 
arm the flower of the Yorkist army. Through the mists, 
the blood-red manteline he wore over his mail, the grin- 
ning teeth of the boar’s head which crested his helmet, 
flashed and gleamed wherever his presence was most 
needed to encourage the flagging or spur on the fierce. 
And there seemed to both armies something ghastly and 
'reternatural in the savage strength of this small, slight 
figure thus startlingly caparisoned, and which was heard 
evermore uttering its sharp war-cry — “Gloucester, to 
the onslaught.1 Down with the rebels, down!” 

Nor did this daring personage disdain, in the midst of 
Us fury, to increase the effect of valor by the art of a 
brain that never ceased to scheme on the follies of man- 
kind. “ See 1 see 1 ” he cried, as he shot meteor-like from 
rank to rank. “ See — these are no natural vapors 1 
Yonder the mighty friar, who delayed the sails of Marga- 
ret, chants his spells to the Powers that ride the gale. 
Fear not the bombards — their enchanted balls swerve 
from the brave 1 The dark legions of Air fight for us ! 
For the hour is come when the fiend shall rend his prey ! ” 
And fiend-like seemed the form thus screeching forth its 
predictions from under the grim head-gear ; and then 
darting and disappearing amidst the sea of pikes, cleav- 
ing its path of blood 1 


^ Sharou Turner. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 487 

But still the untiring might of Warwick defied the 
press of numbers that swept round him, tide upon tide. 
Through the mists, his black armor, black steed, gloomed 
forth like one thunder-cloud in the midst of a dismal 
heaven. The noble charger bore along that mighty 
rider, animating, guiding all, with as much ease and light- 
ness as the racer bears its puny weight ; the steed itself 
was scarce less terrible to encounter than the sweep of 
the rider’s axe. Protected from arrow and lance by a 
coat of steel, the long chaffron or pike which projected 
from its barbed frontal dropped with gore as it scoured 
along. No line of men, however serried, could resist the 
charge of that horse and horseman. And vain even 
Gloucester’s dauntless presence and thrilling battle-cry, 
when the stout earl was seen looming through the vapor, 
and his cheerful shout was heard, “My merry men, fight 
on!” 

For a third time, Gloucester, spurring forth from his 
recoiling and shrinking followers, bending low over his 
saddle-bow, coverd by his shield, and with the tenth lance 
(his favorite weapon, because the one in which skill best 
supplied strength) he had borne that day, launched him- 
self upon the vast bulk of his tremendous foe. With that 
dogged energy — that rapid calculation which made the 
basis of his character, and which ever clove through all 
obstacles at the one that, if destroyed, destroyed the rest, 
— in that, his first great battle, as in his last at Bos- 
worth, he singled out the leader, and rushed upon the 
giant as the mastifi’ on the horns and dewlap of the bull. 


488 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

Warwick, in the broad space which his arm had made 
around him in the carnage, reined in as he saw the foe, 
and recognized the grisly cognizance and scarlet mantle 
of his godson. And even in that moment, with all his 
heated blood and his remembered wrong, and his immi- 
nent peril, his generous and lion heart felt a glow of ad 
miration at the valor of the boy he had trained to arms 
— of the son of the beloved York. “His father little 
thought,’' muttered the earl, “ that that arm should win 
glory against his old friend’s lifel” And as the half- 
uttered word died on his lips, the well-poised lance of 
Gloucester struck full upon his basinet, and, despite th. 
earl’s horsemanship and his strength, made him reel in 
his saddle, while the prince shot by, and suddenly wheel- 
ing round, cast away the shivered lance, and assailed him 
sword in hand. 

“Back, Richard — boy, back I ” said the earl, in a 
voice that sounded hollow through his helmet — “ It is 
not against thee that my wrongs call for blood — pass 
on I ” 

“Not so. Lord Warwick,” answered Richard, in a 
sobered, and almost solemn voice, dropping for the 
moment the point of his sword, and raising his vizor, that 
he might be the better heard, — “ On the field of battle 
all memories, sweet in peace, must die I St. Paul be my 
judge, that even in this hour I love you well ; but I love 
renown and glory more. On the edge of my sword sit 
power and royalty, and what high souls prize most — 
ambition : these would nerve me against mine own 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


489 


brother’s breast, were that breast my barrier to an 
illnstrious future. Thou hast given thy daughter to 
another ! I smite the father, to regain my bride. Lay 
on, and spare not I — for he who hates thee most would 
prove not so fell a foe as the man who sees his fortunes 
made or marred — his love crushed or yet crowned, as this 
day’s battle closes in triumph or defeat. — Rebel, defend 
THYSELF 1 ” 

No time was left for further speech ; for as Richard’s 
sword descended, two of Gloucester’s followers, Parr and 
Milwater by name, dashed from the halting lines at the 
distance, and bore down to their young prince’s aid. 
At the same moment, Sir Marmaduke Nevile and the 
Lord Fitzhugh spurred from the opposite line ; and thus 
encouraged, the band on either side came boldly forward, 
and the milee grew fierce and general. But still Rich- 
ard’s sword singled out the earl, and still the earl, parry- 
ing his blows, dealt his own upon meaner heads. Crushed 
by one swoop of the axe, fell Milwater to the earth — 
down, as again it swung on high, fell Sir Humphrey 
Bourchier, who had just arrived to Gloucester with 
messages from Edward, never uttered in the world below. 
Before Marmaduke’s lance fell Sir Thomas Parr ; and 
these three corpses making a barrier between Gloucester 
and the earl, the duke turned fiercely upon Marmaduke, 
while the earl, wheeling round, charged into the midst 
of the hostile line, which scattered to the right and left. 

“ On 1 my merry men, on ! ” rang once more through 
the heavy air. “ They give way — the London tailors, — • 


490 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

on I ” and on dashed, with their joyous cry, the merry 
men of Yorkshire and Warwick, the warrior-yeomen 1 
Separated thus from his great foe, Gloucester, after un- 
horsing Marmaduke, galloped off to sustain that part of 
his following which began to waver and retreat before 
the rush of Warwick and his chivalry. 

This, in truth, was the regiment recruited from the 
loyalty of London, and little accustomed, we trow, were 
the worthy heroes of Cockaigne, to the discipline of 
arms, nor trained to that stubborn resistance which 
makes, under skilful leaders, the English peasants the 
most enduring soldiery that the world has known since 
the day when the Roman sentinel perished amidst the 
falling columns and lava floods,* rather than, though 
society itself dissolved, forsake his post unbidden. “ St. 
Thomas defend us ! ” muttered a worthy tailor, who in 
the flush of his valor, when safe in the Chepe, had con- 
sented to bear the rank of lieutenant — “ it is not reason- 
able to expect men of pith and substance to be crushed 
into jellies, and carved into subtleties by horse-hoofs and 
pole-axes. Right about face! Fly!” — and throwing 
down his sword and shield, the lieutenant fairly took to 
his heels as he saw the charging column, headed by the 
raven steed of Warwick, come giant-like through the 
fog. The terror of one man is contagious, and the Lon- 
doners actually turned their backs, when Nicholas Alwyn 
cried, in his shrill voice and northern accent, “ Out on 


* At Pompeii. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


491 


you I What will the girls say of us in East-gate and the 
Chepe ? — Hurrah for the bold hearts of London ! — Round 
me, stout ’prentices I let the boys shame the men I This 
shaft for Cocjiaigne ! ” And as the troop turned irreso- 
lute, and Alwyn’s arrow left his bow, they saw a horse- 
man by the side of Warwick reel in his saddle and fall 
at once to the earth, and so great evidently was the rank 
of the fallen man, that even Warwick reined in, and the 
charge halted midway in its career. It was no less a 
person than the Duke of Exeter whom Alwyn’s shaft had 
disabled for the field. This incident, coupled with the 
hearty address of the stout goldsmith, served to reani- 
mate the flaggers, and Gloucester, by a circuitous route, 
reaching their line a moment after, they dressed their 
ranks, and a flight of arrows followed their loud “ Hurrah 
for London Town ! ” 

But the charge of Warwick had only halted, and 
(while the wounded Exeter was borne back by his squires 
to the rear) it dashed into the midst of the Londoners, 
threw their whole line into confusion, and drove them, 
despite all the efforts of Gloucester, far back along the 
plain. This well-timed exploit served to extricate the 
earl from the main danger of his position ; and, hasten- 
ing to improve his advantage, he sent forthwith to com- 
mand the reserved forces under Lord St. John, the Knight 
of Lytton, Sir John Coniers, Dymoke, and Robert Hil- 
yard, to bear down to his aid. 

At this time Edward had succeeded, after a most stub- 
born fight, in effecting a terrible breach through Somer- 


492 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


set’s wing ; and the fogs continued still so dense and 
mirk, that his foe itself — for Somerset had prudently 
drawn back to re-form his disordered squadron — seemed 
vanished from the field. Halting now, as through the 
dim atmosphere came from different quarters the many 
battle-cries of that feudal day, by which alone he could 
well estimate the strength or weakness of those in the 
distance, his calmer genius as a general cooled, for a time, 
his individual ferocity of knight and soldier. He took 
his helmet from his brow to listen with greater certainty ; 
and the lords and riders round him were well content to 
take breath and pause from the weary slaughter. 

The cry of “ Grloucester to the onslaught was heard 
no more. Feebler and feebler, scatteringly as it were, 
and here and there, the note had changed into “ Glou- 
cester to the rescue P' 

Farther off rose, mingled and blent together, the op- 
posing shouts— “A Montagu — a Montagu I” — “Strike 
for D’Eyncourt and King Edward ! “A Say— a Say !” 

“Ha!” said Edward, thoughtfully, “bold Gloucester 
fails — Montagu is bearing on to Warwick’s aid — Say and 
D’Eyncourt stop his path. Our doom looks dark ! Ride, 
Hastings — ride ; retrieve thy laurels, and bring up the 
reserve under Clarence. But harkye, leave not his side 
—he may desert again ! Ho ! ho ! Again, ‘ Gloucester 
to the rescue ! ’ Ah ! how lustily sounds the cry of 
‘Warwick!’ By the flaming sword of St. Michael, we 
will slacken that haughty shout, or be evermore dumo 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


493 


ourself, ere the day be an hour nearer to the eternal 
judgment I ” 

Deliberately, Edward rebraced his helm, and settled 
himself in his saddle, and with his knights riding close 
each to each, that they might not lose themselves in the 
darkness, regained his infantry and led them on to the 
quarter where the war now raged fiercest, round the 
black steed of Warwick and the blood-red manteline of 
the fiery Richard. 


CHAPTER YI 

The Battle. 

It was now scarcely eight in the morning, though the 
battle had endured three hours ; and, as yet, victory so 
inclined to the earl that nought but some dire mischance 
could turn the scale. Montagu had cut his way to War- 
wick ; Somerset had re-established his array. The fresh 
vigor brought by the earl’s reserve had well-nigh com- 
pleted his advantage over Gloucester’s wing. The new 
infantry under Hilyard, the unexhausted riders under Sir 
John Coniers and his knightly compeers, were dealing 
fearful havoc, as they cleared the plain ; and Gloucester, 
fighting inch by inch, no longer outnumbering but out- 
numbered, was driven nearer and nearer towards the 
town, when suddenly a pale, sickly, and ghost-like ray of 
sunshine, rather resembling the watery gleam of a waning 
II. —42 3o 


494 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

moon than the radiance of the Lord of Light, broke 
through the mists, and showed to the earl’s eager troops 
the banner and badges of a new array hurrying to the 
spot. “Behold,” cried the young Lord Fitzhugh, “the 
standard and the badge of the Usurper — a silver sun I 
Edward himself is delivered into our hands I Upon 
them — bill and pike, lance and brand, shaft and bolt I 
Upon them, and crown the day I” 

The same. fatal error was shared by Hilyard, as he 
caught sight of the advancing troop, with their silvery 
cognizance. He gave the word, and every arrow left its 
string. At the same moment, as both horse and foot 
assailed the fancied foe, the momentary beam vanished 
from the heaven, the two forces mingled in the sullen 
mists, when, after a brief conflict, a sudden and horrible 
cry of Treason — Treason!'^ resounded from either 
band. The shining star of Oxford, returning from the 
pursuit, had been mistaken for Edward’s cognizance of 
the sun.* Friend was slaughtering friend, and when the 
error was detected, each believed the other had deserted 
to the foe. In vain, here Montagu and Warwick, and 
there Oxford and his captains sought to dispel the con- 
fusion, and unite those whose blood had been fired against 
each other. While yet in doubt, confusion, and dismay, 
rushed full into the centre Edward of York himself, with 
his knights and riders 5 and his tossing banners, scarcely 
even yet distinguished from Oxford’s starry ensigns. 


* Gout. Croyl., 555 ; Fabyan, Habington, Hume, S. Turner. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


495 


added to the general incertitude and panic. Loud in the 
midst rose Edward’s trumpet voice, while through the 
midst, like one crest of foam upon a roaring sea, danced 
his plume of snow. Hark! again, again — near and 
nearer — the tramp of steeds, the clash of steel, the whiz 
and hiss of arrows, the shout of “ Hastings to the on- 
slaught ! ” Fresh, and panting for glory and for blood, 
came on King Edward’s large reserve : from all the 
scattered parts of the field spurred the Yorkist knights, 
where the uproar, so much mightier than before, told 
them that the crisis of the war was come. Thither, as 
vultures to the carcase, they flocked and wheeled ; thither 
D’Eyncourt and Lovell, and Cromwell’s bloody sword, 
and Say’s knotted mace ; and thither, again rallying his 
late half-beaten myrmidons, the grim Gloucester, his hel- 
met bruised and dinted, but the boar’s teeth still gnashing 
wrath and horror from the grisly crest. But, direst and 
most hateful of all in the eyes of the yet undaunted earl, 
thither, plainly visible, riding scarcely a yard before him, 
with the cognizance of Clare wrought on his gay mantle, 
and in all the pomp and bravery of a holiday suit, came 
the perjured Clarence. Conflict now it could scarce be 
called : as well might the Dane have rolled back the sea 
from his footstool, as Warwick and his disordered troop 
(often and aye, dazzled here by Oxford’s star, there by 
Edward’s sun, dealing random blows against each other) 
have resisted the general whirl and torrent of the sur- 
rounding foe. To add to the rout, Somerset and the 
onguard of his wing had been marching towards the earl 


4y6 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

at the very time that the cry of “treason” had struck 
their ears, and Edward’s charge was made : these men, 
nearly all Lancastrians, and ever doubting Montagu, if 
not Warwick, with the example of Clarence and the 
Archbishop of York fresh before them, lost heart at once 
— Somerset himself headed the flight of his force. 

“All is lost!” said Montagu, as side by side with 
Warwick the brothers fronted the foe, and for one mo- 
ment stayed the rush. 

“ Not yet,” returned the earl ; “ a band of my northern 
archers still guard yon wood — I know them — they will 
fight to the last gasp 1 Thither, then, with what men 
we may. You so marshal our soldiers, and I will make 
good the retreat. Where is Sir Marmaduke Nevile ?” 

“ Here ! ” 

“ Horsed again, young cousin I — I give thee a perilous 
commission. Take the path down the hill ; the mists 
thicken in the hollows, and may hide thee. Overtake 
Somerset — he hath fled westward, and tell him, from me, 
if he can yet rally but one troop of horse — but one — and 
charge Edward suddenly in the rear, he will yet redeem 
all. If he refuse, the ruin of his king, and the slaughter 
of the brave men he deserts, be on his head ! Swift, — 
Cl tout bride, Marmaduke. Yet one word,” added the earl, 
in a whisper—" if you fail with Somerset, come not back, 
make to the Sanctuary. You are too young to die, 
cousin 1 Away ! — keep to the hollows of the Chase.” 

As the knight vanished, Warwick turned to his com- 
rades, — “Bold neohew Fitzhugh, and ye brave riders 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 497 

round me — so, we are fifty knights I Haste thou, Mon- 
tagu, to the wood ! — the wood I ” 

So noble in that hero age was the Individual MAN, 
even amidst the multitudes massed by war, that history 
vies with romance in showing how far a single sword 
could redress the scale of war. While Montagu, with 
rapid dexterity, and a voice yet promising victory, drew 
back the remnant of the lines, and in serried order re- 
treated to the outskirts of the wood, Warwick and his 
band of knights protected the movement from the count- 
less horsemen who darted forth fro-ra Edward’s swarming 
and momently thickening ranks. Now dividing and 
charging singly — now rejoining — and breast to breast, 
they served to divert and perplex and harass the eager 
enemy. And never in all his wars, in all the former might 
of his indomitable arm, had Warwick so excelled the 
martial chivalry of his age, as in that eventful and crown- 
ing hour. Thrice, almost alone, he penetrated into the 
very centre of Edward’s body-guard, literally felling to 
the earth all before him. Then perished by his battle- 
axe Lord Cromwell and the redoubted Lord of Say — 
then, no longer sparing even the old affection, Gloucester 
was hurled to the ground. The last time he penetrated 
even to Edward himself, smiting down the king’s standard- 
bearer, unhorsing Hastings, who threw himself on his 
path ; and Edward, setting his teeth in stern joy as he 
saw him, rose in his stirrups, and for a moment the mace 
of the king, the axe of the earl, met as thunder encounters 
thunder; but then a hundred knights rushed into the 
42* 2g 


498 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


rescue, and robbed the baffled avenger of his prey. Thus 
charging and retreating, driving back, with each charge, 
farther and farther the mighty multitude hounding on to 
the lion’s death, this great chief and his devoted knights, 
though terribly reduced in number, succeeded at last in 
covering Montagu’s skilful retreat ; and when they gained 
the outskirts of the wood, and dashed through the narrow 
opening between the barricades, the Yorkshire archers 
approved their lord’s trust, and shouting as to a marriage- 
feast, hailed his coming. 

But few, alas I of his fellow-horsem.en had survived 
that marvellous enterprise of valor and despair. Of the 
fifty knights who had shared its perils, eleven only gained 
the wood; and, though in this number the most eminent 
(save Sir John Coniers, either slain or fled) might be 
found — their horses, more exposed than themselves, were 
for the most part wounded and unfit for further service. 
At this time the sun again, and suddenly as before, broke 
forth — not now with a feeble glimmer, but a broad and 
almost a cheerful beam, which sufficed to give a fuller 
view, than the day had yet afforded, of the state and 
prospects of the field. 

To the right and to the left, what remained of the 

cavalry of Warwick were seen flying fast gone the 

lances of Oxford, the bills of Somerset. Exeter, pierced 
by the shaft of Alwyn, was lying cold and insensible, re- 
mote from the contest, and deserted even by his squires. 

In front of the archers, and such men as Montagu had 
saved from the sword, halted the immense and murmuring 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


499 


multitude of Edward, their thousand banners glittering 
in the sudden sun ; for, as Edward beheld the last wrecks 
of his foe, stationed near the covert, his desire of con- 
summating victory and revenge made him cautious, and, 
fearing an ambush, he had abruptly halted. 

When the scanty followers of the earl thus beheld the 
immense force arrayed for their destruction, and saw the 
extent of their danger and their loss — here the handful, 
there the multitude — a simultaneous exclamation of terror 
and dismay broke from their ranks. 

“Children!” cried Warwick, “droop not! — Henry, 
at Agincourt, had worse odds than we ! ” 

But the murmur among the archers, the lealest part 
of the earl’s retainers, continued, till there stepped forth 
their captain, a grey old man, but still sinewy and unbent^ 
the iron relic of a hundred battles. 

“ Back to your men, Mark Forester ! ” said the earl, 
sternly. 

The old man obeyed not. He came on to Warwick, 
and fell on his knees beside his stirrup. 

“ Fly, my lord ! escape is possible for you and your 
riders. Fly through the wood ; we will screen your path 
with our bodies. Your children, father of your followers, 
your children of Middleham, ask no better fate than to 
die for you! Is it not so?” and the old man, rising, 
turned to those in hearing. They answered by a general 

acclamation. 

“ Mark Forester speaks well,” said Montagu. On 
vou depends the last hope of Lancaster. We may yet 


500 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


join Oxford and Somerset I This way, through the wood 
— come !” and he laid his hand on the earl’s rein. 

“Knights and sirs,” said the earl, dismounting, and 
partially raising his vizor as he turned to the horsemen, 
“ let those who will, fly with Lord Montagu ! Let those 
who, in a just cause, never despair of victory, nor, even 
at the worst, fear to face their Maker, fresh from the 
glorious death of heroes, dismount with me I ” Every 
knight sprang from his steed, Montagu the first. “ Com- 
rades ! ” continued the earl, then addressing the retainers, 
“ when the children fight for a father’s honor, the father 
flies not from the peril into which he has drawn the chil- 
dren. What to me were life, stained by the blood of mine 
own beloved retainers, basely deserted by their chief? 
Edward has proclaimed that he will spare r?oue. Fool I 
he gives us, then, the superhuman mightiness of despair I 
To your bows I — one shaft — if it pierce the joints of the 
tyrant’s mail — one shaft may scatter yon army to the 
winds ! Sir Marmaduke has gone to rally noble Somer- 
set and his riders — if we make good our defence one little 
hour — the foe may be yet smitten in the rear, and the 
day retrieved I Courage and heart then I” Here the 
earl lifted his vizor to the farthest bar, and showed his 
cheerful face — “Is this the face of a man who thinks all 
hope is gone ?” 

In this interval, the sudden sunshine revealed to King 
Henry, where he stood, the dispersion of his friends. To 
the rear of the palisades, which protected the spot where 
he was placed, already grouped “ the lookers-on, and no 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 501 

fighters,”* as the chronicler words it, who, as the guns 
slackened, ventured forth to learn the news, and \vho 
now, filling the church-yard of Hadley, strove hard to 
catch a peep of Henry the saint, or of Bungey the sor- 
cerer. Mingled with these, gleamed the robes of the 
tymbesteres, pressing nearer and nearer to the barriers, 
as wolves, in the instinct of blood, come nearer and nearer 
round the circling watch-fire of some northern travellers. 
At this time the friar, turning to one of the guards who 
stood near him, said, “ The mists are needed no more 
now — King Edward hath got the day — eh?” 

“ Certes, great master,” quoth the guard, “nothing 
now lacks to the king’s triumph, except the death of the 
earl.” 

“Infamous nigromancer, hear that I” cried Bungey to 
Adam. “ What now avails thy bombards and thy talis- 
man ! Harkye ! — tell me the secret of the last — of the 
damnable engine under my feet, and I may spare thy 
life.” 

Adam shrugged his shoulders in impatient disdain ; 
“ TJnless I gave thee my science, my secret were unpro- 
fitless to thee. Yillain and numskull, do thy worst.” 

The friar made a sign to a soldier who stood behind 
Adam, and the soldier silently drew the end of the rope 
which girded the scholar’s neck round a bough of the 
leafless tree. “ Hold !” whispered the friar, “ not till I 
^ive the word. — The earl may recover himself yet,” he 


Fahyan. 


602 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


added to himself. And therewith he began once more to 
vociferate his incantations. Meanwhile, the eyes of Sibyll 
had turned for a moment from her father ; for the burst 
of sunshine, lighting up the valley below, had suddenly 
given to her eyes, in the distance, the gable-ends of the 
old farm-house, with the wintry orchard, — no longer, 
alas ! smiling with starry blossoms. Far remote from 
the battle-field was that abode of peace — that once 
happy home, where she had watched the coming of the 
false one ! 

Loftier and holier were the thoughts of the fated king. 
He had turned his face from the field, and his eyes were 
fixed upon the tower of the church behind. And while 
he so gazed, the knell from the belfry began solemnly to 
chime. It was now near the hour of the Sabbath prayers, 
and amidst horror and carnage, still the holy custom was 
not suspended. 

“Hark!” said the king, mournfully — “That chime 
summons many a soul to God ! ” 

While thus the scene on the eminence of Hadley, 
Edward, surrounded by Hastings, Gloucester, and his 
principal captains, took advantage of the unexpected 
sunshine to scan the foe and his position, with the eye of 
bis intuitive genius for all that can slaughter man. “ This 
day,” he said, “ brings no victory, assures no crown, if 
Warwick escape alive. To you, Lovell and Ratcliffe, I 

intrust two hundred knights; — your sole care the 

head of the rebel earl I ” 

“And Montagu?” said Ratcliffe. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


503 


“Montagu? Nay — poor Montagu, I loved him as 
well once as my own mother’s son ; and Montagu,” he 
muttered to himself, “I never wronged, and therefore 
him I can forgive ! Spare the marquis. — I mislike that 
wood ; they must have more force within than that 
handful on the skirts betrays. Come hither, D’Eyn- 
court.” 

And a few minutes afterwards, Warwick and his men 
saw two parties of horse leave the main body — one for 
the right hand, one the left — followed by long detach- 
ments of pikes, which they protected ; and then the 
central array marched slowly and steadily on towards 
the scanty foe. The design was obvious — to surround 
on all sides the enemy, driven to its last desperate bay. 
But Montagu and his brother had not been idle in the 
breathing pause ; they had planted the greater portion 
of the archers skilfully among the trees. They had 
placed their pikeraen on the verge of the barricades, 
made by sharp stakes and fallen timber, and where their 
rampart was unguarded by the. pass which had been left 
free for the horsemen, Hilyard and his stoutest fellows 
:ook their post, filling the gap with breasts of iron. 

And now, as with horns and clarions — with a sea of 
plumes, and spears, and pennons, the multitudinous 
deathsmen came on, Warwick, towering in the front, not 
one feather on his eagle crest despoiled or shorn, stood, 
dismounted, his vizor still raised, by his renowned steed. 
Some of the men had by Warwick’s order removed the 
mail from the destrier’s breast ; and the noble animal, 


504 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


relieved from the weight, seemed as unexhausted as its 
rider ; save where the champed foam had bespecked its 
glossy hide, not a hair was turned ; and the onguard of 
the Yorkists heard its fiery snort, as they moved slowly 
on. This figure of horse and horseman stood prominenly 
forth, amidst the little band. And Lovell, riding by 
Ratclilfe’s side, whispered — “ Beshrew me, I would rather 
King Edward had asked for mine own head than that 
gallant earl’s ! ” 

“ Tush, youth,” said the inexorable Ratclitfe — “ I care 
not of what steps the ladder of mine ambition may be 
made ! ” 

While they were thus speaking, Warwick, turning to 
Montagu and his knights, said — 

“ Our sole hope is in the' courage of our men. And, 
as at Towton, when I gave the throne to yon false man, 
I slew, with my own hand, my noble Malech, to show 
that on that spot I would win or die, and by that sacri- 
fice so fired the soldiers, that we turned the day — so 
now — oh, gentlemen, in another hour ye would jeer me, 
for ray hand fails ; this hand that the poor beast hath so 
often fed from ! Saladin, last of thy race, serve me now 
in death as in life.. Not for my sake, oh noblest steed 
that ever bore a knight — not for mine this offering I ” 

He kissed the destrier on his frontal, and Saladin, as 
if conscious of the coming blow, bent his proud crest 
humbly, and licked his lord’s steel-clad hand. So asso- 
ciated together had been horse and horseman, that had 
it been a human sacrifice, the by-standers could not have 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 505 

been more moved. And when, covering the charger’s 
eyes with one hand, the earl’s dagger descended, bright 
and rapid — a groan went through the ranks. But the 
elfect was unspeakable I The men knew at once, that to 
them, and them alone, their lord intrusted his fortunes 
and his life — they were nerved to more than mortal 
daring. No escape for Warwick — why, then, in War- 
wick’s person they lived and died ! Upon foe as upon 
friend, the sacrifice produced all that could tend to 
strengthen the last refuge of despair. Even Edward, 
where he rode in the van, beheld and knew the meaning 
of the deed. Victorious Towton rushed back upon his 
memory with a thrill of strange terror and remorse. 

“ He will die as he has lived,” said Gloucester, with 
admiration. “If I live for. such a field, God grant me 
such a death ! ” 

As the words left the duke’s lips, and Warwick, one 
foot on his dumb friend’s corpse, gave the mandate, a 
murderous discharge from the archers in the covert, 
rattled against the line of the Yorkists, and the foe, still 
advancing, stepped over a hundred corpses to the con 
flict. Despite the vast preponderance of numbers, the 
skill of Warwick’s archers, the strength of his position, 
the obstacle to the cavalry made by the barricades, ren- 
dered the attack perilous in the extreme. But the orders 
of Edward were prompt and vigorous. He cared not 
for the waste of life, and as one rank fell, another rushed 
on. High before the barricades, stood Montagu, War 
mtR, and the rest of that indomitable chivalry, the flower 

II.— 43 


606 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 


of the ancient Norman heroism. As idly beat the waves 
upon a rock as the ranks of Edward upon that serried 
front of steel. The sun still shone in heaven, and still 
Edward’s conquest was unassured. Nay, if Marmaduke 
could yet bring back the troops of Somerset upon the 
rear of the foe, Montagu and the earl felt that the victory 
might be for them. And often the earl paused, to hearken 
for the cry of “ Somerset ” on the gale, and often Mon- 
tagu raised his vizor to look for the banners and the 
spears of the Lancastrian duke. And ever, as the earl 
listened and Montagu scanned the field, larger and larger 
seemed to spread the armament of Edward. The regi- 
ment which boasted the stubborn energy of Alwyn was 
now in movement, and, encouraged by the young Saxon’s 
hardihood, the Londoners marched on, unawed by the 
massacre of their predecessors. But Alwyn, avoiding 
the quarter defended by the knights, defiled a little towards 
the left, where his quick eye, inured to the northern fogs, 
had detected the weakness of the barricade in the spot 
where Hilyard was stationed ; and this pass Alwyn (dis- 
carding the bow) resolved to attempt at the point of the 
pike — the weapon answering to our modern bayonet. 
The first rush which he headed was so impetuous as to 
effect an entry. The weight of the numbers behind urged 
on the foremost, and Hilyard had not suflBcient space for 
the sweep of the two-handed sword which had done good 
work that day. While here the conflict became fierce 
and doubtful, the right wing led by D’Eyncourt had 

pierced the wood, and, surprised to discover no ambush, 

N 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 50T 

fell upon the archers in the rear. The scene was now in- 
expressibly terrific ; cries and groans, and the ineffable 
roar and yell of human passion, resounded demon-like 
through the shade of the leafless trees. And at this mo- 
ment, the provident and rapid generalship of Edward 
had moved up one of his heavy bombards. Warwick and 
Montagu, and most of the knights, were called from the 
barricades to aid the archers thus assailed behind, but an 
instant before that defence was shattered into air by the 
explosion of the bombard. In another minute, horse and 
foot rushed through the opening. And amidst all the 
din was heard the voice of Edward, “ Strike ! and spare 
not ! we win the day ! ” “ We win the day I — victory I 

— victory!” repeated the troops behind; rank caught 
the sound from rank — and file from file — it reached the 
captive Henry, and he paused in prayer ; it reached the 
ruthless friar, and he gave the sign to the hireling at his 
shoulder; it reached the priest as he entered, unmoved, 
the church of Hadley. And the bell, changing its note 
into a quicker and sweeter chime, invited the living to 
prepare for death, and the soul to rise above the cruelty, 
and the falsehood, and the pleasure and the pomp, and 
the wisdom and the glory of the world I And suddenly, 
as the chime ceased, there was heard, from the eminence 
hard by, a shriek of agony — a female shriek — drowned 
by the roar of a bombard in the field below. 

On pressed the Yorkists through the pass forced by 
Ah^'yn. “ Yield thee, stout fellow,” said the bold trader 
to Hilyard, whose dogged energy, resembling his own. 


508 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


moved his admiration, and in whom, by the accent in 
which Robin called his men, he recognized a north coun- 
tryman ; — “ Yield, and I will see that thou goest safe in 
life and limb — look round — ye are beaten.” 

“Fool I” answered Hilyard, setting his teeth — “the 
People are never beaten 1 ” And as the words left his 
lips, the shot from the recharged bombard shattered him 
piecemeal. 

“ On for London and the crown I ” cried Alwyn — “ the 
citizens are the people I ” 

At this time, through the general crowd of the York- 
ists, Ratclifife and Lovell, at the head of their appointed 
knights, galloped forward to accomplish their crowning 
mission. 

Behind the column which still commemorates “the 
great battle” of that day, stretches now a trilateral 
patch of pasture-land, which faces a small house. At 
that time this space was rough forest ground, and where 
now, in the hedge, rise two small trees, types of the 
diminutive offspring of our niggard and ignoble civiliza- 
tion, rose then two huge oaks, coeval with the w'arriors 
of the Norman Conquest. They grew close together, 
yet, though their roots interlaced— though their branches 
mingled, one had not taken nourishment from the other. 
They stood, equal in height and grandeur, the twin giants 
of the wood. Before these trees, whose ample trunks 
protected them from the falchions in the rear, Warwick 
and Montagu took their last post. In front rose, literally, 
mounds of the slain, whether of foe or friend ; for round 


THE LAST OF THE BAEONS. 


509 


the two brothers to the last had gathered the brunt of 
war, and they towered now, almost solitary in valor’s sub* 
lime despair, amidst the wrecks of battle, and against the 
irresistible march of fate. As side by side they had 
gained this spot, and the vulgar assailants drew back, 
leaving the bodies of the dead their last defence from 
death, they turned their vizors to each other, as for one 
latest farewell on earth. 

“Forgive me, Richard,” said Montagu — forgive me 
thy death ; — had I not so blindly believed in Clarence’s 
fatal order, the savage Edward had never passed alive 
through the Pass of Pontefract.” 

“Blame not thyself,” replied Warwick. “ We are but 
the instruments of a wiser Will. God assoil thee, brother 
mine. We leave this world to tyranny and vice. Christ 
receive our souls I ” 

For a moment their hands clasped, and then all was 
grim silence. 

Wide and far, behind and before, in the gleam of the 
sun, stretched the victorious armament, and that breath- 
ing-pause sufficed to show the grandeur of their resistance 
the grandest of all spectacles, even in its hopeless ex- 
tremity — the defiance of brave hearts to the brute force 
of the Many. Where they stood they were visible to 
thousands, but not a man stirred against them. The 
memory of Warwick’s past achievements — the conscious, 
ness of his feats that day — all the splendor of his fortunes 
and his name, made the mean fear to strike and the brave 
ashamed to murder. The gallant D’Eyncourt sprung 
43 ♦ 3p 


510 THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 

from his steed, and advanced to the spot. His followers 
did the same. 

Yield, my lords — yield ! Ye have done all that men 
could do.’^ 

‘‘Yield, Montagu,” whispered Warwick. “Edward 
can harm not thee. Life has sweets ; so they say, at 
least. ” 

“Not with power and glory gone. We yield not. Sir 
Knight,” answered the marquis, in a calm tone. 

“ Then die, and make room for the new men, whom ye 
so have scorned I ” exclaimed a fierce voice ; and RatclifiTe, 
who had neared the spot, dismounted, and hallooed on 
his blood-hounds. 

Seven points might the shadow have traversed on the 
dial, and, before Warwick’s axe and Montagu’s sword, 
seven souls had gone to judgment. In that brief crisis, 
amidst the general torpor and stupefaction and awe of the 
by-standers, round one little spot centred still a war. 

But numbers rushed on numbers, as the fury of conflict 
urged on the lukewarm. Montagu was beaten to his 
knee — Warwick covered him with his body — a hundred 
axes resounded on the earl’s stooping casque — a hundred 
blades gleamed round the joints of his harness ; — a simul- 
taneous cry was heard : — over the mounds of the slain, 
through the press into the shadow of the oaks, dashed 
Gloucester’s charger. The conflict had ceased — the exe- 
cutioners stood mute in a half-circle. Side by side, axe 
and sword still griped in their iron hands, lay Montagu 
and Warwick. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 511 

The young duke, his vizor raised, contemplated the 
illen foes in silence. Then dismounting, he unbraced 
vith his own hand the earl’s helmet. Revived for a mo- 
ment by the air, the hero’s eyes unclosed, his lips moved, 
he raised, with a feeble effort, the gory battle-axe, and 
the armed crowd recoiled in terror. But the earl’s soul, 
dimly conscious, and about to part, had escaped froir 
that scene of strife — its later thoughts of wrath ant. 
vengeance — to more gentle memories, to such memories 
as fade the last from true and manly hearts I 

“Wife! — child I” murmured the earl, indistinctly. 
'‘Anne — Anne I Dear ones, God comfort ye I ” And 
with these words the breath went — the head fell heavily 
on its mother earth — the face set, calm and undistorted, 
as the face of a soldier should be, when a brave death 
has been worthy of a brave life. 

" So,” muttered the dark and musing Gloucester, un- 
conscious of the throng ; “ so perishes the Race of Iron. 
Low lies the last baron who could control the throne and 
command the people. The Age of Force expires with 
knighthood and deeds of arms. And over this dead 
great man I see the New Cycle dawn. Happy, hence- 
forth, he who can plot, and scheme, and fawn, and 
smile I ” Waking with a start, from his reverie, the 

splendid dissimulator said, as in sad reproof, “ Ye have 

been over-hasty, knights and gentlemen. The House of 
York is mighty enough to have spared such noble foes. 
Sound trumpets! Fall in file! Way, there — way! 
King Edward comes! Long live the King!” 


512 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


CHAPTER VII. 

The last Pilgrims in the long Procession to the Common Bourne. 

The king and his royal brothers, immediately after the 
victory, rode back to London to an^jounce their triumph 
The foot-soldiers still stayed behind to recruit themselves 
after the sore fatigue ; and towards the eminence by 
Hadley Church, the peasants and villagers of the district 
had pressed in awe and in wonder ; for on that spot had 
Henry (now sadly led back to a prison, never again to 
unclose to his living form) stood to watch the destruction 
of the host gathered in his name — and to that spot the 
corpses of Warwick and Montagu were removed, while 
a bier was prepared to convey their remains to London* 
— and on that spot had the renowned friar conjured the 

* The bodies of Montagu and the earl were exhibited bareheaded 
at St. Paul’s church for three days, “ that no pretences of their 
being alive might stir up any rebellion afterwards;'^ “they were 
then carried down to the Priory of Bisham, in Berkshire, where, 
among their ancestors by the mother’s side (the Earls of Salisbury), 
the two unquiet brothers rest in one tomb.” “ The large river of 
their blood, divided now into many streams, runs so small, they 
are hardly observed as they flow by.” (a) — Sic transit gloria 
mundi ! 


uHabington’s “Life of Edward IV.,” one of the most eloquent 
compositions in the language, though incorrect as a history. 


THE LAST OF THE BARONS. 


513 


mists — exorcised the enchanted guns — and defeated the 
horrible machinations of the Lancastrian wizard. 

And towards the spot, and through the crowd, a young 
Yorkist captain passed with a prisoner he had captured, 
and whom he was leading to the tent of the Lord Hast- 
ings, the only one of the commanders from whom mercy 
might be hoped, and who had tarried behind the king 
and his royal brothers to make preparations for the re- 
moval of the mighty dead. 

“Keep close to me. Sir Marmaduke,’^ said the Yorkist; 
“ we must look to Hastings to appease the king ; and, 
if he hope not to win your pardon, he may, at least, after 
suoh a victory, aid one foe to fly.” 

“ Care not for me, Alwyn,” said the knight ; “ when 
Somerset was deaf, save to his own fears, I came back 
to die by my chieftain’s side, alas, too late — too late! 
Better now death than life I What kin, kith, ambition, 
love, were to other men, was Lord Warwick’s smile to 
me ! ” 

Alwyn kindly respected his prisoner’s honest emotion, 
and took advantage of it to lead him away from the spot 
where he saw knights and warriors thickest grouped, in 
soldier-like awe and sadness, round the Hero-Brothers. 
He pushed through a humbler crowd of peasants, and 
citizens, and women with babes at their breast; and sud- 
denly saw a troop of timbrel-women dancing round a 
leafless tree, and chanting some wild, but mirthful and 
joyous doggerel. 

2 H 


514 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 

“ What obscene and ill-seasoned revelry is this ? ” said 
the trader, to a gaping yeoman. 

“ They are but dancing, poor girls, round the wicked 
wizard, whom Friar Bungey caused to be strangled, — 
and his witch daughter.” 

A chill foreboding seized upon Alwyn ; he darted for- 
ward, scattering peasant and tymbestere, with his yet 
bloody sword. His feet stumbled against some broken 
fragments ; it was the poor Eureka, shattered, at last, 
for the sake of the diamond I Valueless to the great 
friar, since the science of the owner could not pass to his 
executioner— valueless, the mechanism and the invention, 
the labor and the genius, but the superstition, and the 
folly, and the delusion, had iheiv value, and the impostor 
who destroyed the engine clutched the jewel ! 

From the leafless tree was suspended the dead body 
of a man ; beneath, lay a female, dead too ; but whether 
by the hand of man or the mercy of Heaven, there was 
no sign to tell. Scholar and Child, Knowledge and 
Innocence, alike were cold ; the grim Age had devoured 
them as it devours ever those before, as behind, its march 
— and confounds, in one common doom, the too guileless 
and the too wise ! 

“ Why crowd ye thus, knaves ? ” said a commanding 
voice. 

“ Ha, Lord Hastings ! — approach I behold ! ” ex- 
claimed Alwyn. 

“ Ha— ha ! ” shouted Graul, as she led her sisters from 
the spot, wheeling, and screaming, and tossing up their 


THE LAST OP THE BARONS. 515 

timbrels — “ Ha I the witch and her lover ! — Ha — ha 1 
Foul is fair I — Ha — ha I Witchcraft and death go to- 
gether, as thou mayst learn at the last, sleek wooer.” 

And, peradventure, when, long years afterwards, accu- 
sations of witchcraft, wantonness, and treason, resounded 
in the ears of Hastings, and, at the signal of Gloucester, 
rushed in the armed doomsmen, those ominous words 
echoed back upon his soul ! 

At that very hour the gates of the Tower were thrown 
open to the multitude. Fresh from his victory, Edward 
and his brothers had gone to render thanksgivings at St. 
PauPs (they were devout — those three Plants genets I) 
thence to Baynard^s Castle, to escort the queen and her 
children once more to the Tower. And, now, the sound 
of trumpets stilled the joyous uproar of the multitude ; 
for, in the balcony of the casement that looked towards 
the chapel, the herald had just announced that King Ed- 
ward would show himself to the people. On every inch 
of the court-yard, climbing up wall and palisade, soldier, 
citizen, thief, harlot, — age, childhood, all the various 
conditions and epochs of multiform life, swayed, clung, 
murmured, moved, jostled, trampled ; — the beings of the 
little hour I 

High from the battlements against the westering beam 
floated Edward’s conquering flag — a sun shining to the 
sun. Again, and a third time, rang the trumpets, and on 
the balcony, his crown upon his head, but his form still 
sheathed in armor, stood the king. What mattered to 
the crowd his falseness and his perfidy — his licentious- 


516 THE LAST OP THE BARONS. j 

I 

ness and cruelty ? All vices ever vanish in success 1 
Hurrah for King Edward 1 The man of the aoe suited 
the age, had valor for its war and cunning for its peace, 
and the sympathy of the age was with him I So there 
stood the king ; — at his right hand, Elizabeth, with her 
infant boy (the heir of England) in her arms — the proud 
face of the duchess seen over the queen’s shoulder. By 
Elizabeth’s side was the Duke of Gloucester, leaning on 
his sword, and at the left of Edward, the perjured Cla- 
rence bowed his fair head to the joyous throng I At the 
sight of the victorious king, of the lovely queen, and, 
above all, of the young male heir, who promised length 
of days to the line of York, the crowd burst forth with a 
hearty cry — “ Long live the king and the king’s son 1” 
Mechanically Elizabeth turned her moistened eyes from 
Edward to Edward’s brother, and suddenly, as with a 
mother’s prophetic instinct, clasped her infant closer to 
her bosom, when she canght the glittering and fatal eye 
of Richard Duke of Gloucester (York’s young hero of 
the day, Warwick’s grim avenger in the future), fixed 
upon that harmless life — destined to interpose a feeble 
obstacle between the ambition of a ruthless intellect and 
the heritage of the English throne 1 


THE END 




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